


Mooncakes

by Never_Out_Of_Style



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Gen, I'll go pack for hell, Mutual Pining, Non-binary Nicole Haught, Waverly Earp & Nicole Haught are Childhood Friends, Werewolf Nicole Haught, Witch Waverly Earp, bring back Chrissy Nedley, but there was only one bed, give Gus a girlfriend, it is a sin to write werewolf fic post coldmackerel, pop culture references sorry Giles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-12-27 17:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21122879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Never_Out_Of_Style/pseuds/Never_Out_Of_Style
Summary: Did I mention that after my transformations, I turn back into Nicole Haught: Naked Edition?Yep.It’s pretty cool, you know, haven’t seen my childhood crush in years, we fight a demon together, and I show up to the after party in my birthday suit.Fuck.





	1. Underneath all that hair, you're still a dork

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this incredible graphic novel of the same name, which you can find here:
> 
> https://smile.amazon.com/Mooncakes-Suzanne-Walker/dp/154930304X/ref=sr_1_3?keywords=mooncakes&qid=1571673619&sr=8-3
> 
> Dedicated with all the love in my heart to my best friend, who weathered the storms of writer's block alongside me. Thanks, Earp. I owe you one.

> ** _“There are some_ **
> 
> ** _who can live _ **
> 
> ** _without wild _ **
> 
> ** _things and_ **
> 
> ** _some who cannot.”_ **
> 
> ** _Aldo Leopold_ **
> 
>   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


I hate subways. 

They’re always romanticized in movies and TV shows, and _ it drives me crazy. _ I mean, don’t get me wrong. I get _ why_. They’re part of the charm of the “city life” or whatever, right?

Well, tell you what: if you’re okay with your charming city life stinking of fucking piss, then please, by all means . . . go with your heart. 

The thing about subways is that they’re cheap. They’re cheap, and depending on where you are in the world, it’s really easy to catch a free ride, especially if you’re someone like me, where cheap doesn’t cut it. 

Don’t have a dollar in your pocket? Don’t worry. The real fee is: how high can you jump?

I’m not going to recommend that you try it in New York, New York, but some smaller cities in the Northeastern U.S.? 

Well, you didn’t hear it from me. 

Another tolerable thing about subways besides being cheaper than cheap for the broken _I MEAN BROKE_ among us is that people don’t stare too much. My sweatshirt is pretty much a planter now for all the dirt that’s on it, but people aren’t going to blink twice if they see a filthy kid walking around. It’s unlikely to be the weirdest thing they’ve encountered using the public transportation system. 

_ Believe me_. 

I usually go to the laundromat maybe once every two, three weeks, depending on what change I can scrounge up (usually not too hard in high tourist traffic areas), but I’m just short a couple quarters, and I’m not about to wash all my clothes without a dryer. 

So unwashed grungy orange sweatshirt and worn-out jeans on week four it is. It’s not fashion, but it’s not naked, either, so. 

Call me bougie (you’d be right), but wearing dirty clothes is _ way _ better than wearing clean clothes not dried in a dryer. I can’t deal with itchy, stiff clothes that have a weird mildew scent.

I know. _ Bougie as hell_. 

I’m not about to deny it. 

I guess you’re probably wondering right now what I’m even doing here, if I hate subways so much. The truth is, I never thought I’d be back here myself. 

Yeah, those words—

_ I never thought I’d be back here _—

Well, they’ve been bouncing around in my head for a while. 

_ Fuck_, I sound dramatic. 

Purgatory is my home, sure; the one place I know I can come back to without any pretense at all and know that I am home. 

But it’s also the one place I know I should have never come back to (it’s probably a little late for that statement). I’m not sure if that makes any sense. 

My family moved around a lot when I was a kid—never stayed in one place long enough to really settle anywhere. I never felt like I belonged, but here . . . here I could have, if we had stayed long enough. 

Like most kids growing up, I lived with my parents in apartments and other small living spaces, nothing special. Life was school, reading comic books, binge-watching _ Buffy the Vampire Slayer _ (and reading Twillow fanfic—shout to my old friends on the kitten board), and hanging out with my best friends, Wynonna and Waverly Earp. 

So Purgatory is a small town, right? Chances are good you’ve never even heard of it.

And like most small towns, Purgatory has its share of problems, one of them being extremely gossipy rich folk who spend their lives spreading rumors and keeping down others they’ve deemed below themselves. 

Word on the Purgatory street for years before I ever arrived had on good authority that all the women in the Earp family were carrying genetics suitable for _ witchcraft_. 

We are in New England, so I suppose one of the worst things you can be secondary to being a woman is a witch. 

Good little Purgatory children know better than to play with anyone suspected of witchcraft, and it probably goes without saying that the Earp sisters weren’t winning any popularity contests with the neighborhood kids (although Waverly told me not too long ago that she won the Nicest Person in Purgatory award, which came with a sash. She was delighted). 

I, however, having never fit in myself anywhere, was immediately drawn to them. 

Their home property—lovingly nicknamed “The Homestead” (I believe that is a Wynonna-ism if I’m not mistaken, definitely sounds like her)—was a good thirty minute drive outside of town, but the family-owned used bookstore, Black Cats Bookstore and Café, was right in the center of the city, directly across the street from where I lived.

I gotta be honest with you and say I love how you can tell what kind of people the Earps are from the name of their shop in a town that hates them for the witchcraft rumors: _ absolutely zero fucks given_. 

Let me just interrupt your regularly scheduled program to let you know that Black Cats Bookstore and Café serves the most _ fucking delicious _ vegan goodies and coffee in the whole damn world. 

Eating there is like eating Speculoos Cookie Butter straight from the spoon. It tastes like you got it on a random sale you didn’t know about; you just waltzed into Trader Joe’s like you always do but everything in the store is 50% off. It tastes like you stocked up on jars, and you can savor every morsel without guilt because you know you’re never going to run out again.

It tastes like that fresh mashed avocado on whole wheat toast you love from the one local food truck that only serves brunch on weekends. It tastes like normally they have a freakishly long line (we’re talking _ hours_, people), but you got your grub before the traffic hit. 

It tastes like you got a full ride scholarship at the liberal arts college where you majored in your passion, graduated with no student debt, had a job lined up before you left school (a job with _ benefits _ and work-life balance), and bought a house before the age of 40. 

I know, I know.

Nothing can taste _that _ good, right?

But I’m Dixie Chicks serious. This is some good _ shit_. 

So let me save your overworked fingers from some unnecessary scrolling on Yelp: it’s Black Cats or _ bust_. 

So anyways. Let’s talk Purgatory. 

Purgatory is kind of a basic bitch paradise, with a farmer’s market every Saturday spring through late fall and a locally owned coffee shop on virtually every corner selling pumpkin spice _ whatever_. Tbh, during the fall, it looks like someone ripped a scene from a fucking postcard you’d pay a whopping $4 for at tourist shop, what with all its autumnal getup and fall _ aesthetic_. 

I know it might sound like I’m angry at Purgatory for being a beautiful town, but that’s not it at all. I like that Purgatory is a kind of fall paradise, and the tourists are an important part of the small economy, so I’m glad that people want to visit us. 

I guess I just get annoyed when people see a town that looks perfect from the outside, so they assume all the people on the _ inside _ are perfect, too. And what I hate more is when the people on the inside start thinking that they’re perfect as well, so whenever something happens that doesn’t fit that exact description, Purgatorians do whatever is in their power to ignore it, and if you’re the one to bring it up? 

Well, they say silence is golden.

I don’t remember the exact moment I figured out that Daddy Earp was abusive, but I remember that even when I told Wynonna I knew, she never stopped pretending that there was some other reasons for the bruises. 

Wynonna is the type who will throw herself between those who she loves (I know I used the word loves, but I’d be lying if I didn’t mention that I’m not sure Wynonna ever loved anyone besides Waverly) and violence, so she was getting more than just her own punches. 

For all her bravery, Daddy Earp still made sure Waverly came out childhood feeling invisible, insecure, and unworthy of love. 

The _ bastard_. 

My situation wasn’t really comparable to the Earps, but being at home with my parents didn’t really feel safe most of the time (my dad and I fought like too underfed chihuahuas trapped in a room furnished by Marie Kondo, and my mom did nothing about it), so I made Black Cats and time spent with the Earp sisters my home. 

Friendship with Wynonna was easy; if I’m being honest, she was the easiest friend I ever made. She’s the kind of friend that if I never connected again with a single living soul for the rest of my miserable life, she would still be more than enough.

Don’t tell her that, though. I know she’ll think it’s weird. 

Now her younger sister? Waverly? 

Well, Waverly is a different story. 

Waverly is like . . . damn, I am at a loss for words. Waverly is like someone took sunlight and made it a human. She’s bright, warm, impossibly kind in a way that makes me anxious (like homegirl someone someday is gonna take advantage of you and then I’ll have to kill them and be a murderer), and when she smiles, her eyes turn into little half-moons that honestly make me want to _ weep_. 

I haven’t told her any of this yet, of course, because you don’t want people you like to _ know you like them_, right? 

The. _ Horror. _

Maybe when this all over, I’ll go see her. 

I cling to that thought as I make my way deeper into the forest well outside of the city limits. It’s dark, and horrible, and I would rather be anywhere else. But I know there’s no one else who can do this. It’s got to be me. I’ve got to keep people safe. 

I sense movement to my right, and I whip around with my flashlight to see nothing. It feels too loud to let out a sigh of relief, so I hold it in, but it’s in that moment that I hear it. 

It’s pawing at the ground, close. It’s big, and I know somehow that it’s angry.

Worst of all, it knows. 

It knows I’m here.

So much for a sneak attack. 

* * *

_ 10 days later _

I wake to the sound of my stomach growling, a petulant child inside of me begging for food. To be fair, it has been a long time since I’ve eaten (I’m not going to be precise on the details here, because thinking about it makes me hungrier), but I’m too afraid to leave the forest now. 

Everything in my body is sore, to the point where I feel like I’ve turned into one giant bruise. A bruise to rule all bruises. 

But the pain is the proof that I am still alive, which is more than I knew I should hope for when I came back here. 

I turn myself to a different position on my back, allowing myself the luxury of an exceptionally self-indulgent (if I do say so myself) groan cuz _ damn _ it hurts. I don’t know why making noise when we hurt makes things better, but it works, so I’m not going to question. 

I blink back the sleep from my eyes and realize with a little teaspoon’s helping of shock that it’s dark outside. 

I guess that’s what happens you sleep for . . . I look at my watch. 

_ Shit Shit shit Shit shIT shiT Shit sHit _

This _ thing _ always shows up a midnight, cuz you know, spooky things have a reputation to uphold, of course, let us never forget that. I lied down for a “quick” nap at I don’t know, maybe six-ish? But I guess I pulled a Sleeping Beauty, because according to my watch, it’s 11:57. 

Yeah.

Gave myself three minutes. _ Awesome. _

Normally, I am _ a lot _ more prepared than this. Okay, I’ll admit that things have been a little more flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants these days, but I am not _ usually _like this. 

I shake my head. Nothing to be done about it now, and it’s not like I can scoff and pretend I didn’t need the sleep. I mean, I _ can _ and I will _ scoff _ and pretend about my sleep deprivation because HELLO that’s my coping mechanism, but that’s neither here nor there.

I run my hand across my eyes, clearing out the last vestiges of sleep before I glance at my watch (11:58) when I hear the voice. 

“I waited outside already for _ two hours _ and didn’t see a thing. I don’t know, Chrissy, headed into the forest now to check it out, though, okay? Yeah. Yeah. I’ll let you know when I’m headed back home. Text the aunties if I don’t text you in about an hour. Uh-huh. Okay, cool. Bye!” 

I furrow my brow. That sounds an awful lot like . . . 

But there isn’t time to dwell. Not that I have much of a choice, anyway. 

When my mom told me about my, um, we’ll call it “werewolf-ness” (were-aptitude? were-tendencies?), I had a pretty good attitude about it. In fact, I think I was kind of excited about my first transformation. 

Being excited about monsters is kind of a popular thing, you could say.

Well, she left out all the details about how painful and exhausting it is (and how it’s kind of a weird consent issue, but werewolf transformations aren’t really up to speed with the times), how you grow hair in uncomfortable places at an uncomfortable pace, and how it re-engages my dysphoria every damn time _ like a bitch_, but whatever. You know. Details. 

It hurts. It hurts like hell, but it’s quick. 

I hate my transformations, but when I’m done, it feels, I don’t know . . . free? I know I’m stronger in wolf form, and being stronger means that I’m safer and can do more for other people. I don’t hate that part so much. 

I guess my self-soliloquy was pretty fucking distracting, though, because speaking of distracting, Waverly Earp is standing right in front of me (she is wearing a very adorable, appropriately fall-themed outfit, I must say. Really, she belongs in a catalog with her button down scarf, Doc Marten’s, matching tights), her eyes wide and wand drawn, a light emitting from its tip and casting shadows through the forest. 

I stare back at her in wolf form, blink. 

I can see memories pass over her face as recognition dawns there. 

“N-nic?” she calls out, her voice shaking like it always does when she’s unsure. 

I panic. 

So you probably figured out on your own by now that the rumors about the Earp sisters are 100% true, and Waverly is one banging witch (as are all the women in her family related by blood). She’s crazy powerful, and I would trust her with my life, but sometimes a werewolf needs to slay their own forest demons without being rescued by the damsel in distress, yeah?

So I run.

I know, I know.

Maybe you’re screaming at your screen, _ why don’t you just talk to her you colossal fuckwit _

You would have a really good point, and I can’t blame you for screaming. I’m as stupid as stupid comes. 

But the more distance I put between me and Waverly, the more distance I put between Waverly and the demon. And that’s a choice I’d make, over and over again. 

But Waverly gives my chivalry a big, fat, _ whatever_, I guess, because my this is _ not _ going according to plan. 

“Wait! Come back!” Waverly yells, several paces behind me, but still way, way, _ way _ too close. 

I’m trying hard not to panic as I dash through the forest, knowing that while I’m much faster than Waverly (at least in wolf form, now human form? I’m pretty sure I’m still faster, but Waves might disagree with me), I’m much slower and smaller than the demon. 

I hear Waverly stop, hear her wheezing.

Good, now _ stay there_. 

I don’t say it aloud, of course, because fun fact: werewolves can’t talk. 

I mean, we can still communicate: howls, grunts, baring our teeth, you know, all the fun stuff you love to see in your Halloween movies. But I can’t say actual words when I’m in wolf form. 

The very first time I transformed and realized I couldn’t talk, I remember feeling scared. Worried that I might never be able to speak again. But it only lasts when I’m in wolf form, and then I go back to being regular old me, vocal cords intact. 

My relief is short-lived, however; because I hear Waverly, this time closer, call out, “Nicole, is that you? Where are you?” 

It’s pawing at the ground, snorting, its breath turning into mist in the cold. 

I want to tell Waverly to run, to get far away, but I can’t. So I howl. I howl until it’s echoing through the trees, until the leaves around me are shaking. 

But it doesn’t matter. 

It doesn’t matter because Waverly, it turns out, was hiding in a grove of trees behind me, and I hear her mutter “oh crap” as she takes in the sight of the horse-like demon now directly in front of us.

It rears back on its hindermost set of legs, the other two sets of legs bucking out in a show of strength, the limbs and joints stuck out at odd angles. There’s an eye in the middle of its belly, the iris red and dark as blood. It’s fixating on me, tracking my movements so closely I wonder if it can read my mind and predict my next move. 

The smell is something awful, as clumps of decayed flesh hanging loosely from deep gashes in its neck, back, and hindquarters sway and catch in the wind, perfuming the air around us with the stench of death. Its mane, the color of ash, fans out and forms a halo behind its monstrous head. 

Its lips are drawn back in a snarl, a warning not to approach. 

Waverly’s wand flashes light right into one of its glowing red eyes, and it makes a sound that sounds frighteningly like a human scream before turning towards her.

I don’t give it a chance, though. 

The moment I see it so much as _ think _ in her direction, I’m growling on my haunches, my fur standing on a point, giving it a mere minute before I propel myself directly at its neck. 

But as I launch myself forward, I instantly realize my mistake, watching with dread as it pulls its head back and our skulls smash together with a force that makes my teeth chatter. 

I fall to the ground, momentarily stunned. Everything hurts and if I had the option to cry, I would. My main problem is, I can’t move. Not the best vantage point when you're in immediate danger of being trampled by Black Beauty from hell. 

“No!” I watch as Waverly runs at the thing, her wand exuding magic. “Screw horses!” 

I can barely see through my left eye, which is rapidly swelling, but I feel magic begin to surround me in a protective bubble, a feeling that is something akin to looking directly into the sky as a light rain falls and taps the plane of your face. Everything around us is now an electric hue of blue, a color so vivid that even through my closed eye, I can definitely see it. 

And there’s Waverly at the center of it all, looking like a certified badass as raises her arms high above her head, a gesture that I’m guessing is somehow connected to increasing the strength of the protection spell. But it’s not enough.

I can see the pain, bright and obvious, across her face as she withstands the attacks of the horse demon. 

I can deal with a lot of shit, I’ll tell you what, but one thing I have _ zero fucking tolerance _ for is something that’s putting Waverly in pain. 

So I rise to my feet (err, paws?), still hella unsteady and _ damn _ am I sore, but hey, legs are legs, and they are moving again, plus Waverly needs my help. I’m in good enough shape for another go by my standards, anyway.

So I jump (_yes_, I wanted to sing, _so I creep, yeeaaah_, along to the tune of the song, but I mostly resisted), and because I am, in fact, capable of learning on occasion, I aim this time for the back. The smell of the necrotic skin there is nightmarish, and every inch of me cringes when I sink my oversized incisors in _ deep_. 

I'm blocking out all the _sensations_ with a compelling fantasy about how, when this is all over, I'm locking myself in the nearest bathroom and brushing my teeth for fifteen minutes straight. 

We struggle for a minute there, evil horsey and I, before the principles of physics win out and the demon with significant more mass throws me off with ease. 

I hit something _ hard _ as I fly off (a tree probably?), and I’m pretty sure my molecules have now been rearranged, because everything inside me is spinning like a washer on its final cycle, and I feel more numb than anything else. 

Waverly and I must be luckier than the seventh rainbow marshmallow at the bottom of the box of Lucky Charms, because the demon is running off in another direction, somewhere deeper in the forest. 

I’m trying not to call any attention to myself, which is probably why I begin to hack furiously. 

Did I mention that after my transformations, I turn back into Nicole Haught: Naked Edition? 

Yep.

It’s pretty cool, you know, haven’t seen my childhood crush in _ years_, we fight a demon together, and I show up to the after party in my birthday suit. 

Fuck. 

Fortunately, I've been saved, courtesy of some very conveniently placed shrubbery, and most of me is hidden when I put all my charm into: 

“L-long time, no see, Honeybee.” 

Waverly shakes her head at me, the hint of a smile there, as she adjusts her hearing aids. I’m very naked, but I still make sure I’m facing her where she has a good view of my lips (for _ hearing purposes_), and I make sure I look at her when I’m talking. 

“Honeybee?” she asks, working her arms out of her jacket and draping it over me. “I haven’t heard that nickname in ages. Are you okay, Nicole? What was that?”

I hastily pull some leaves from my hair. “Yeah, I’m okay. Great, actually. Well, a little sore, and there’s something going on with my eye . . . ”

Waverly hisses as she takes a closer look at my face. I can’t see myself, but I can’t imagine I am looking my best. The skin under my eye feels like it is more balloon than human and has its own heartbeat to match. Cute. 

“Do you need a healing spell?” Waverly asks, looping an arm around me to help me stand. “I’m sorry. I don’t have all my supplies on me, but I’m sure I could do a little something to help the pain if it’s bad?” 

It’s bad, but the chances of me telling Waverly that and having her worry?

You guessed it. 

It’s gonna be a no from me. 

“I’ll be okay,” I say. “But, uh, my backpack with all my stuff is out here somewhere, and I have some clothes in there I can put on, so you don’t freeze to death without your jacket.”

“I could do a little _ accio _ backpack if you want,” Waverly offers as we both sift through the underbrush and leaves in search of my belongings. 

“You _ know _ we're not supposed to use magic outside of Hogwarts,” I tease, stumbling into my backpack, which is nestled behind the nearest tree. 

Did Waverly tell me she was a bonafide witch during one of our countless _ Harry Potter _ movie marathons?

Yep, she sure did. _ Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_, to be exact. 

It’s never been the same movie for me since. 

Waverly uses her wand as a flashlight to help me see the contents of my backpack, and I reach for the cleanest things I can find: a red flannel, thin black jacket, scruffy pair of jeans, and purple converse. 

Waverly’s being quiet as I fasten my buttons, and I’ll be honest and say I’m dreading her next words, because it’s pretty obvious the girl is _ mad_. Well, maybe she’s just annoyed. 

But anger, annoyance, irritation, frustration, etc. in Earp women? 

Really bad combo. 

I mean, like—

“Nicole, why didn’t you tell me where in Purgatory?” 

Well, _ shit_. 

Waverly doesn’t sound mad at all. She’s sad. And sad Waverly? Well, be prepared to give up all your valuables, because there’s nothing quite so heart-rending as seeing Waverly Earp cry and wanting to give her _ anything _ to make it right again.

I hand over her jacket, brushing off some imaginary werewolf-dust so it’s a little nicer before she takes it. 

I want to say _ I’m sorry _ because it sucks that I made Waverly upset, and it seems like the easiest thing to say that would make things better, but I don't. I don’t because it’s not true. I’m not sorry.

“I planned on seeing you when I was done,” I say, and that _ is _ the truth, “but I had no idea how long everything would take, and I didn’t want to worry you.”

And as soon as I say the words, I want to punch myself in the face.

I forgot Waverly trigger phrase number one: _ I didn’t want to worry you_. 

Those are classic Wynonna and Nicole excuse words for being overprotective, and the two of us have seen enough Waverly blow-outs in response to them to be smart enough not to use them. 

Except for not me, apparently, because guess fucking what?

_ Oops_. 

She’s furious, her eyes hard, and her mouth in a long, straight line. Her arms are crossed, and her whole body is radiating tension.

“What have you been doing this whole time, then, Nicole? Living out in the woods by yourself?” 

I grimace. 

“It’s only been the woods the last ten days," I say. 

I have no idea why I thought that would be a helpful thing to say, but it’s out of my mouth now. Too late to take it back.

Waverly stamps a foot on the ground. “You could’ve said something, Nicole! You know we have a giant house with plenty of room!”

“You know we would’ve taken you in,” she says, this time softer. 

I _ know _ the Earps would have taken me in, no second thought, no questions asked. And maybe that’s why I didn’t do it. Too easy? There’s been a part of me that’s been daydreaming about just walking up to the homestead and knocking on the front door. 

I sigh. No explanation I give is going to be enough, but not saying anything? I might have escaped death by demon, but death by Waverly is all but a guarantee. 

I run my hand through the back of my hair, trying to cover up my wince as I feel a bump forming there. “I know it’s been hard for Gus since things with Curtis, and I didn’t want to intrude.”

Waverly actually rolls her eyes. 

“Gus would be so mad if she heard you saying that. You know she’s the most independent woman on the _ planet_, and hello! She raised three _ Earp _ kids who weren’t even her her own,” Waverly pauses, contemplates. “Well, four, now. Maybe three and half. You know she wouldn’t care.” 

“Wait, four?” I ask, mentally counting _ Willa, Wynonna, Waverly_, over and over again, until I’m worried that maybe I never mastered the concept of the number three.

Yikes on _ bikes_. 

“You’ll see,” Waverly winks, reaching down to grab my backpack and gently pulling it over my shoulders. “If we go back to my place?” 

She sounds so hopeful right now, and the chances of me saying no to Waverly Earp were already negligible to begin with. But there's fear again (_Hey, Nicole! Miss me?_), like a giant, fucking anvil sitting at the bottom of my stomach. 

It’s just been me for so long, trying to figure things out. Figuring out being a werewolf, figuring out my body, figuring out how to function without a family, trying (and _ failing_) to figure out my powers, figuring out why there’s this cult out there, trying to get me. 

Yeah, you read that last line correctly. _A cult_. 

It’s been a lot. I don’t know if I’m ready to share with anyone yet, even if that someone is the _crush_ of my young life. Maybe _especially_ because this is the crush of my young life.

_Hey Waves, I'm on the run from a cult. Wanna get a coffee sometime? _I'm sure that would go over _swimmingly_. 

“Waves, I’m sorry,” and this time I mean it. “There’s a lot of things that have been happening to me, and I don’t know how to put it all in words. Is that okay?” 

Do I sound poetic? Mature? Or am I merely masking the _fact_ of my emotional impotence with words that sound unconvincingly sexy and emo?

“Of course, Bubs.” 

Maybe I’ve sprouted wings or something, I don’t know, because hearing Waverly call me by that nickname makes me feel like I’m _ flying_. 

She walks towards me with her hand outstretched, her fingers soft and gentle as they palpate my bruised and swollen eye. I feel my breath catch in my throat and my whole face warm in response to her touch. 

I hope I’m not being super obvious, but it’s probably a lost cause at this point. Cool.

“Come on, let’s go,” Waverly says, swinging my arm over her tiny shoulders and steering us with resolve in the direction of the Homestead. 

We’ve only been walking for a couple minutes or so when Waverly swears (_shit_!) and digs in her pocket for her phone, which has come to life with some of call.

“Waverly Earp, it’s been an hour, and you better not be dead!” a voice demands shrilly from the receiver. 

The sound of Chrissy Nedley’s voice sends me right back to my Purgatory High days. Ah, the nostalgia. The long forgotten smells of teen spirit. Funny how the passage of time can make you miss your most hellish four years. 

“Hey Chrissy, everything is fine, and I’m on my way back right now,” Waverly says, giving me an apologetic look. 

I shrug. 

“Are you with someone?” Chrissy asks, sounding suspicious.

Maybe narrowing your eyes doesn’t _ technically _ make a sound, but actually, it’s the sound of Chrissy Nedley. 

“Yeah, I am,” Waverly admits. “But I can’t really talk right now, can I call you back tomorrow with _ all _ the details?” 

I can’t really hear what’s happening on Chrissy’s line from where I’m standing, but I would be willing to bet cold, hard cash that she’s not a fan of that plan. Chrissy and Waverly have been best friends since kindergarten, and any withholding of information at this point in their relationship is as good as betrayal.

“If you don’t call me before 9 am tomorrow morning, I will show up at the homestead. I will not bring breakfast. And I will wake Wynonna up before her alarm clock and set it up to make it look like it was your fault.”

Waverly gulps. 

“I _ promise_, Chrissy. Talk to you tomorrow?”

She doesn’t respond, just hangs up. 

“_Damn_,” I chuckle. I don’t full-on laugh like I want to, because I’m not about to risk Waverly Earp’s wrath for a second time in so short a timeframe. But you’ve got to hand it to Chrissy—if anyone could handle Waverly’s spiciness (she’s basically a miniature, adorable bottle of hot sauce incarnate)—it’s Chrissy Nedley.

A friendship match made in I'm-too-spicy-for-your-bullshit-heaven. 

Fortunately for me, Waverly laughs as well. “Yeah. She is something else. I guess that’s what you get for being the daughter of the Purgatory Sheriff.”

Ah, good ol' Sheriff Randy Nedley. The man who mistakenly thought I was going to make something more of myself beyond being homeless, extremely hairy several days of the month, and on the run from cults.

I hope he's picked up some new hobbies outside of putting his faith in the wrong people. He could adopt a cat from the animal shelter? He's always struck me as having a soft spot for displaced animals. 

We’re more than seventy-five percent of the way to the homestead when I notice something. 

“Hey,” I say, twirling a wavy lock of Waverly’s hair before situating it behind her ear. “You changed the color of your hearing aids. That new blue color really makes your eyes pop.”

Waverly blushes a pretty shade of pink and ducks her head. So fucking adorable, maybe I died? 

“Thanks,” she says, shy. “It’s a real pain to get them to match sometimes. But I figured it was time to change out the purple.”

“I love them! They look great,” I reassure her. 

I know Waverly has a bit of a sore spot regarding her hearing aids. It’s gotten better with time, I think, but sometimes it’s still hard when there’s some visibly different about you from everyone else. Not that I would know anything at all about _that_ . . . 

“Well,” Waverly says, the steady cadence of our walk coming to a stop outside her front door. “Nothing much has changed, but here we are.”

She reaches under the doormat for the spare key (I know you’re probably thinking, _ hey_, that’s not a very safe place for a key if you don’t want your house easily broken into, and you’d be right, which is what the family’s shotguns are for), and we walk into the dark front room. 

One of Waverly’s three cats trots up to us almost immediately, meowing _ loudly _ in a bid for attention as she butts her head up against Waverly’s shins.

“Shhh!” Waverly hurries to bend down and scratch behind the cat’s ears. “You’re going to wake up the whole house with that racket, Phoebe!”

Abruptly, the lights turn on, and it takes all my willpower not to shift into furry mode from shock alone. 

“It’s a little late for that Waverly.” 

Gus’ voice, somehow always riding the line between sharp and kind, is a welcome one as the light illuminates her face. She’s wearing an oversized, extremely fluffy nightgown with bunny slippers to match. It’s an outfit that is so off-putting, it practically walks up to me, says, “Hello, I am the opposite of this woman you love and remember." I’m about to open my mouth to question when I glance at the unfamiliar woman standing next to her, wearing similar, if not identical, garb. 

“Who’s your friend, Waverly?” Gus asks, her eyes steely and shrewd as she walks closer to us for inspection. 

I can’t blame Gus for not recognizing me in my current state. Still haven’t had access to a mirror (#blessed) since our lovely brush with the killer demon, but I know my eye is looking _ bad _ and the rest of unshowered, underrested, and poorly fed me can’t be a pleasant sight.

“Is that Nicole Haught?” asks the mystery woman, eyeing me with interest. 

“Hi?”

She thrusts a hand out for me to shake, her face all smiles. As I take her in, I’m impressed. The woman is tall, like, towering over me tall (not an easy feat), which probably makes her somewhere around 6’2” in height. She’s wearing horn-rimmed glasses that make her look intense, but I can see in the deep smile lines etched in her face that she’s also kind. 

“Nice to finally meet you, Nicole Haught, we’ve heard so much about you from Waverly! I’m Ruth Ann Baldwin,” she says by way of introduction. “I’m your Aunt Gus’ girlfriend. We started dating in February.” 

There's a pause of approximately 0.0008967846 seconds' worth of silence as I process my surprise. “Oh, wow, awesome! It’s really nice to meet you, Ruth.”

“What happened to your face, Nicole?” Gus asks, clicking her tongue in disapproval as she takes my chin in her hands and pulls me firmly down to her level, so she can take a look at my battered face. 

You notice how there's no, _can I take a look at your face Nicole_ or _that must hurt, please come closer so I can look_? Me too. 

Earps. 

She's _technically_ a Gibson, I know.

Earp by association, then.

“Can Nicole stay with us for a couple nights?” Waverly asks as she sits down on the couch and yanks off her boots, wiggling her toes in her socks. “She’s been living as a forest child for the past ten days.” 

All of Waverly's fancy degrees in comparative literature and mastery of several languages have really paid off: you could never say she doesn't have a way with words. 

“No wonder she’s so skinny,” Gus huffs. “Of course she can stay. I just washed some towels and bedding that are folded and ready to go in the linen closet. Go with Waverly, Nicole, she can show you where we keep everything. It’s changed since you were last here.”

I take a deep breath, clear my throat. “They.” 

Gus pauses. “Sorry, what did you say, Nicole?”

“I use they pronouns now.”

“Oh, of course,” Gus gives my forearm a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for telling me.” 

“What do you need?” Ruth is hovering in the kitchen, setting a tea kettle on the stove to boil before any of us can get in a word otherwise. “We’ve got tea. What about food? What are you hungry for?” 

“I wouldn’t say no to some donuts,” a voice drawls from the hallway. 

“Stop lurking in the shadows Wynonna, and come join us in the land of the living,” Gus calls out to the hallway, shaking her head.

_ Wynonna! _

I’m all kinds of half-nervous, half-excited types of energy. It’s been _ years _ since I’ve seen my best friend. If there was anyone I thought about almost as much as Waverly since I’ve left Purgatory, it’s Wynonna. I’ve imagined so many conversations between the two of us about the most trivial things that I’m not sure if I remember how to talk to the real thing. 

“Haught stuff!” Wynonna marches right over to me with purpose, her eyes lit with something that looks a lot like genuine happiness as she wraps me in an unbearably tight hug. 

“Hey Wynonna,” I greet, half-strangled. “I’ve missed you.”

The sound of a baby crying interrupts our reunion. 

I sniff the air (okay, I _ know _ I already heard the crying, but I rely so much on my heightened sense of smell these days that I can’t help myself), look at Wynonna in confusion.

“What is that?” 

“Oh, um,” Wynonna starts, at a loss for words.

“I’ve got it,” Gus waves her off and makes her way into the other room. 

“Nicole, I’d like you to meet my niece, Alice Michelle,” Waverly announces, beaming with pride as Gus returns with a little pink bundle and offers the baby to me.

“Alice Michelle?” 

I take her into my arms, looking into a set of eyes just a shade or two lighter than Wynonna’s. Although judging by her size she can be no more than a couple months old, she has a surprising amount of thick, wavy dark hair bunched all on top of her tiny little head. 

She takes one look at me, her eyes inquisitive and clever, before her pudgy face wrinkles into a scowl, and she begins _ wailing_.

“What a set of lungs you have, Alice,” I compliment as I try to very gently rock her in an attempt to soothe. 

Apparently flattery is _ not _ the way to her heart, because it seems my efforts only serve to increase the intensity and depth of her sobs. I feel the weight of everyone watching the two of us interact, my embarrassment peaking as I accidentally make eye contact with Waverly.

Wynonna laughs at me, though she is merciful enough yet to take the baby from me, instantly quieting Alice’s cries. “Sorry, Haught. My baby isn’t a big fan of strangers.” 

My head is reeling. 

Baby? _ Wynonna_? What universe have I stumbled into?

“I’ll let you two get reacquainted in the morning when Alice is in a better mood,” Wynonna promises, snagging a box of cookies from the pantry with the hand not busy securing her baby to her hip. “For now, me and these cookies are in for a quality night of bonding. Night all!”

Everyone passes along their good night wishes with varying levels of enthusiasm, and it’s not long before Ruth is pressing teacups and saucers into mine and Waverly’s hands, fussing about how _ it’s hot _ and _ blow on it before you take a sip, dears_.

She’s somehow managed to guilt me into eating _ five _ of her homemade vanilla bean shortbread cookies (let’s take a brief moment here to admire the fact that these are not your mother’s basic ass vanilla cookies; these are the _ next level_, as in, I’m a sophisticated-adult-who-watches-the-food-network-regularly cookies, ones where you can actually _ see _ the little specks of vanilla in there) anxiously studying my face as I eat _ each one _ to make sure that I _ definitely _ like it before I’m very _ appreciatively _ crying uncle and asking to go to bed.

Both Gus and Ruth wrap Waverly in a hug, Ruth peppering her head with kisses before bidding us both a good night and leaving to their bedroom, hand in hand. 

Waverly’s room is just how I remember: airy, light, ethereal—like a microcosm of Waverly herself. 

She sits me on the bed, her hands lingering on my shoulders for just a beat longer than either of us is expecting before she turns and begins rustling in her closet. I lay on my back and gaze at the glow in the dark stars brightening up the ceiling, grinning as I remember using the bed as a makeshift ladder to lift a too-short Waverly in the air, so she could stick them there. 

“Sorry, Nicole, this is going to sting a little bit,” Waverly warns before she sets a cloth against my cheek and eye. “We need to get this swelling down.”

You’d think that the touch of healing magic would be a gentle, welcome one, but that shit _ hurts_.

You can feel the bones and muscles and tendons knitting themselves back together underneath your skin at an accelerated rate, and while it beats out regular, old-fashioned healing in terms of convenience, I’m not sure it’d be preferable outside of a time-sensitive, life and death situation. 

I wince and grit my teeth, trying to hold in my reaction and be cool about the situation before I notice Waverly watching me with worry and _ maybe _ I lean into the drama (a bit).

One of Waverly’s cats (Prue? Piper? Phoebe? Although Waverly seems to keep the identical black cats apart with ease, I never can tell which is which) rubs up against me, purring. 

I touch my face, still surprised, after all these years of knowing the Earps and their magic, that the skin there is now smooth and whole. 

The cloth, drained of its enchantment, is soft against my skin as Waverly uses it to clean away any leftover dirt/leaf/blood/unsavory souvenirs from our fun little romp in the woods. 

“Is that any better?” she asks, her eyes burrowing into mine as if looking there for any evidence of a lie. Which, fair, would be _ on brand_. 

“That’s much better, thank you,” I reply, trying to mull her over with what I hope comes across as a grateful smile. 

She’s still looking at me with obvious skepticism. Okay, _ fine_. 

“Um, there’s actually, uh, there’s a bump on the back of my head,” I confess in a rush, patting the sore spot with a bit too much gusto, to the point where I’m visibly flinching.

“Come here,” Waverly admonishes, one hand resting on the back of my neck to pull me closer, the other carding through my hair in search of the injury. 

Like I said, healing usually _ hurts _ like a mother, and while I’m aware that Waverly’s working her mojo right now, with her body flush against mine, her breath soft as a whisper against my ear, all I can feel is this warmth spreading across my chest, and the shiver I can’t suppress. 

“There,” Waverly sits back. “Is that everything?”

My eyes feel heavy now, and I know that I look dopey and sleep drunk as I nod. 

“Nicole,” she begins, lacing her fingers through mine. “Can you tell me what’s been going on?”

I sigh, my head dropping down, but my hands still holding tight to Waverly’s.

There were some times, when I was out there by myself, that I would have given _ anything _ for someone to just sit down and talk with me. Ask me questions about what I was going through. They wouldn’t have to offer help or sympathy, or anything. Just listen. 

So I feel _ stupid _ because here’s Waverly right now, the person that I care about most in the world and probably at least cares about me a little bit, and the words aren’t coming. 

“Okay,” I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Let my lungs collapse and refill. 

I rub at my face, pausing for a second while I wait for the pain from my previously wounded eye to kick in, when I remember that Waverly’s magic has already done the hard work of healing for me. 

“How familiar are you with wolf magic?” I ask. 

“Um,” Waverly chews on her lip (you guessed it—_ adorable_!), and I watch the cute, scrunched facial expression she makes that I know corresponds with the act of her flipping through her mental library of information. “It’s a relatively new field of study, right? I don’t know much, honestly. I’ve seen the words _ wolf magic _ while flipping through some of my favorite reference books, but, outside of that . . . ”

“It’s okay,” I squeeze both her hands, still linked in mine. “You’re right about it being relatively new. No one really thought to look into it until about a decade ago. There are still a lot of things we don’t know.” 

“What magic do werewolves have, I mean, beyond the transformation, of course?” she asks. 

“It’s hard for me to explain,” I admit. “I don’t know a lot about it myself. But apparently, changing into a wolf creates a huge amount of energy, more energy than anyone previously thought. It’s still just a theory, but some people say that if you could learn to harness and use that energy, well, it would be enough to bring the dead back to life.” 

“So basically what you’re saying is,” Waverly says. “Is that you’re Dr. Frankenstein?” 

I nod, gravely. “I am Universal’s critically acclaimed film, _ Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman_, with a critically acclaimed ass to match.” 

“Ugh,” Waverly smacks me in the face with one of her pillows, causing both of us to erupt in a fit of giggles. 

She lays down on her side, using two of her fingers to dance across my stomach. “This is somehow connected to that horse-ghost thing we saw in the forest, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I answer, capturing her fingers in my hand and watching as she half-heartedly struggles against my unrelenting grip. “A body of a demon is buried there, and there’s some kind of legend that says only the power of the wolf can raise it from its resting place. Anyways, that’s what the people who are trying to wake it said. But I didn’t get all the information they had, because when I realized what they wanted, they came after me. I had to get away.” 

“Oh, Nicole,” Waverly rubs her thumb against my hand. “I’m so sorry.” 

I dig the heels of my hands into my eyelids, my hands covering the sneaky beginnings of tears, as I war with the feelings of wanting to revel in her comfort but being too overwhelmed with my guilt to accept it. “I tried to stop them. I tried to get to it before they did. But it doesn’t matter, Waverly. It’s already waking up, and I have no idea what to do.” 

“I’m guessing that’s the horse?”

“Yeah, that’s the horse,” I groan. “I _ swear _ I tried to get rid of it, but all my attempts to control my magic to date have been a joke. The only thing I’ve managed to do since I’ve started trying to control it is to get myself stuck as a wolf. For a month. A whole month, Waverly!” 

“We can figure this out!” I’ve still got my hands over my eyes, so I can’t see it, but I can feel Waverly bouncing with excitement against the mattress. 

“Come on, Nicole,” she says, wrestling my hands away from my eyes. “You’ve got me, Wynonna, the aunties, and even baby Alice to help you out!” 

A sandpapery tongue, courtesy of one of Waverly’s cats, is dutifully licking at my fingernails. She looks at me with what may be considered feline affection. 

Waverly’s eyes are flashing with enthusiasm. “I’ll start looking in the library tomorrow. There _ must _ be something in one of Emily Perkins’ anthologies; she’s considered the quintessential expert on werewolves by the supernatural community. I’ll have to check out Katharine Isabelle as well. If I’m not wrong, she’s likely the original author of that theory about wolf magic—” 

“Hey,” I say softly. 

I don’t mean to interrupt, but she has to know—

“I really missed you.” 

My fingers tangle with hers, give an experimental squeeze.

She turns to me, smiling, and pulls me into a full on embrace. 

I hope she doesn’t notice the fact that my cheeks are on _ literal fire _ (sorry I know it’s metaphorical, but that word just doesn’t convey the same meaning, regardless of its grammatical correctness), but as she leans her head on my shoulder, I can feel the blush of her own cheeks in the heat against my skin. 

“I missed you, too.” 

—


	2. Where the hell am I supposed to find silver bullets? K-Mart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Beaver Moon, Bitches.

> _ **The way you walked ** _
> 
> _ **was thorny,** _
> 
> _ **through no fault ** _
> 
> _ **of your own,** _
> 
> _ **but as the rain ** _
> 
> _ **enters the soil,** _
> 
> _ **the river enters the sea,** _
> 
> _ **so tears ** _
> 
> _ **run to a predestined end.** _
> 
> _ **The Wolfman (1941)** _

I wake up in a panic.

There are two pillows, both soft and otherwise innocuous, situated below my head. A blanket is draped over me, a thicker one bunched up underneath me. 

It is so _ soft _ and so _ nice _ and so _ warm _ and so _ not the forest where I have been sleeping_.

Where the _ fuck _ am I? 

It’s when I’ve said enough _ shits _ and _ fucks _ to cost a sailor his lifetime that I realize where I am. 

_ Oh, right_. I feel like an idiot. 

I’m in Waverly’s room. 

The sunlight peeking through the blinds is mellow. It’s neither bright nor cheery, which makes it more bearable to endure as it touches my eyelashes, warms the upright side of my face. I listen to the morning songs of birds as they tweet and chitter and greet each other. 

Have I stumbled into a fucking Disney movie? 

I rub at my throat, nervous for a moment that I’m in immediate danger of bursting into song. Waverly has always been the far superior singer, and I’m _ not _ ready to make my vocal debut.

I roll to my back, tuck my arms under my head. 

_ So what now, Haught_? I ask myself. _ This was your mess to fix, and now you’ve gotten the Earps all mixed up in it. The _ one _ friend who was ever good to you _ . . . 

My insides clench. 

_ How could you betray Waverly’s kindness like this? _

I try to swallow down all my guilt and confusion, but my throat’s too dry, too thick. Nothing’s going down. I focus on the glow-in-the-dark stars above me, my eyes roaming until I find the stars that make up Capricorn. 

Of all the signs, I had to be born under the one with a goat. Because nothing says sexy like being associated with a half-goat. 

_ Capricorn_? Waverly had asked, eyebrows knitted in confusion. _ You’re kinda judgey for a Capricorn. Are you _ sure _ you’re not a Scorpio_?

I laughed, then listened as Waverly told me that Virgo and Capricorn were merely our Sun signs, that there were moon signs, too, and ascending signs (I struggled to remember the difference between these two, still do, in case you were wondering).

_ It’s not just about the month and day you’re born_, she informed me, matter-of-fact. _ It’s about where, what year, and time of day, too_. _ Mama said . . . Mama said there’s something special about being born when the sun is the closest to the earth. Said that’s part of where my compassion comes from_. 

The constellation of Eriadanus, living up to the anus in its name, had taken forever to get lined up. But Waverly wasn’t happy with “almost right”. She wouldn’t stop until it was right. And I, being the sucker that I am, wasn’t happy until Waverly was happy. 

Waverly turns over in her sleep, looks at me with her eyes still half-closed and smiles. Her wavy-textured hair is a mess, all golden honey-colored and tangled. A wolf could get used to waking up to this scene every morning . . . 

“Morning, you,” I greet, not bothering to hide the grin spreading from my one cheek to the other.

“How’d you sleep?” she wrings her hands, flustered. “I’m sorry you slept on the floor.”

The truth is, Waverly is far from responsible for my sleeping on the floor. I threw a _ fit _ of chivalry, and she was too tired to fight me on it. 

“Better than I have in weeks,” I admit, just the tiniest bit sheepish.

Huh. 

You know, you never think too much of using a word like sheepish to describe yourself. 

Not until you’re a fucking _ werewolf _ and the whole thing suddenly reads as _ ironic_. 

The underbrush in the woods made a soft enough makeshift mattress, I suppose. It was more the combination of the freezing cold breeze at night and the bug bites that were really starting to get to me.

“Good, I’m glad,” Waverly stretches, moves to a sitting position in her bed. “It smells like they’re cooking breakfast already. Are you hungry, Bubs?”

There’s a part of me that hesitates.

It would be the easiest for me to get away at a time like this. Thank Waverly and the aunties for hospitality, maybe sneak in an extra hug for Wynonna (probably would stick with a _ no touch _ policy for the Earplet, no sense in getting Alice all worked up right before leaving, especially not on a nice morning like this), and make up some excuse about how I have to go.

Well, not excuse.

It’s not like the demon in the woods has gone on an exotic vacation while I make merry with some friends. I will have to leave, eventually. 

“Um, so I—” my stomach growls, a sound that does not go unnoticed by Waverly. She raises an eyebrow, dares me to deny what we both know to be true. “That would be great, actually.”

Okay, so maybe my impulse control could use some work, but can you blame a wolf? I haven’t eaten _ a meal _ in . . . 

Waverly runs a hand over the stubborn cowlick in my hair, giggles as it flies straight up again. A tingle runs from the top of my head all the way down to my toes. 

“When was the last time you had your hair cut?” she asks, smoothing her own locks back into a long ponytail. She reaches for her hearing aids, fiddles with them until they’re in place. 

“I dunno,” I can feel that I’m turning red, and I’m trying to use “wiping the sleep from my eyes” as an excuse to cover the blush. “I usually do it myself. Probably why it’s cut at all different lengths. I should not be trusted with sharp objects.” 

“I can fix it if you’d like?” she offers. “No one has quite figured out how to see the back of their head while cutting their own hair, not even witches.”

I shrug, trying to keep it casual. You know. 

“Um, yeah, I, um, ah huh, I would, I think, like that, um, very much.” 

Smooth, Haught. Real smooth. 

“Well come on, then, let’s go before Wynonna eats everything!” 

She links her arm in mine, marches us down to the living room. The scent that greets us almost sends me to my knees in a wolf puddle of want. There are pancakes, vegan sausages, vegan bacon (it’s not as horrible as it sounds), and best of all, absolutely none of it is gluten free. 

I sink into the cream-colored booth around the kitchen table, careful not to show how eager I am to eat someone else’s food. But, of course, Ms. Baldwin will have none of it. 

Before my butt has touched the seat, she’s set a full plate in front of me and a cup of coffee in my hands. 

“I can tell it’s been too long since you’ve had a decent meal, dear,” she says, using tongs to set a few extra pieces of bacon on top of the small bacon mountain she’s already fixed on my staggeringly full plate. “Don’t worry, Auntie Ruth will fix that right up for you.” 

Okay, I’ll be honest with you. I wasn’t lying about Black Cats Bookstore and Café serving great vegan baked goods. But vegan baked goods? They are _ not _ the same as other non-traditionally vegan foods. 

The taste of vegan food substitutes, especially typical breakfast food, is usually not my favorite. Some people argue that soy doesn’t taste like anything until you season it, and then once you do, it takes on whatever flavor you give it. 

That’s nice. 

But I say that soy, unless it’s seasoned beyond recognition, tastes a lot like _ ass_.

If Waverly hears about this, I’ll be dead, so let’s keep this between us, yes?

Being a werewolf means that I want to eat more meat, even when I’m in human form. Before I got in touch with my lycopanthic side, I wasn’t exactly a vegetarian, per se, but I was getting there. 

Damn chicken nuggets for tasting so fucking good. 

Though oat milk, it turns out, is actually pretty good in comparison to cow’s milk, and that’s a fucking fact. 

I digress.

The point is, I tried to limit meat, sometimes for animal welfare, sometimes for the environment, but mostly for Waverly, tbh. Then I decided to be a feral child, and now there are times when the taste of meat is all but irresistible. 

The problem is, controlling myself when I have normal looking canines is one thing, but controlling myself when it’s that time of the month (you know what time of the month I mean, though the other one is a bitch and can go to hell, too)? 

It’s different. 

The thing about being a wolf is that now my urges to consume meat come with some extra guilt, beyond animal welfare and global warming. 

Why?

Because I want to bite fucking _ people_. 

Not to eat them. Gross. But to make them more like me. Which isn’t great, and no one deserves that. Not even my luscious red hair (pretty sure that doesn’t come with the werewolf package, but to be fair, no one is sure).

So life is a little conundrum, when your body and brain are screaming for one thing, and your heart couldn’t feel _ worse _ about having it. 

But this, this food in front of me? This 100% vegan spread? You best believe it is the best damn food I have ever tasted, vegan or otherwise. I can see why Gus keeps Ruth Ann Baldwin around. The gastronomical magic of this woman alone, I swear . . . 

“This is really good, Ms. Baldwin, thank you,” I say sincerely between hurried bites. 

I’m trying not to eat too fast, but it’s pretty much a lost cause at this point. 

“Please call me Ruth,” she insists, winking at me. “Anyone who eats my cooking with that much enthusiasm is family.” 

Gus gives me a shrewd look before I can spiral down the long tube of my embarrassment. 

“How long are you planning on staying in town, Nicole? Are you here with your family?”

I chew, swallow. “It’s just me here for now. But I might be in Purgatory for a while. There’s, well, there’s a thing. I’ve been, uh, I’ve been working on a thing.”

My, my, my, I _ have _ been elegant with my word choices today. 

“Is something wrong, Nicole?” Gus asks, buttering her slice of freshly baked (insert groan here) bread. 

I turn my head away from her scrutinizing gaze. Not much I or anyone else can get past Gus, especially not after she raised Wynonna, but damn if I’m not going to try it. 

“Well, there’s—”

My mind buzzes with ideas, each more far-fetched and useless than the next. 

“There’s an arch-demon in the forest, and Nicole has to destroy it,” Waverly announces in a rush. 

I stare at her, my face blank. 

Gus and Ruth light up, their facial expressions identical in their glee. 

“_Oh_,” says Gus through a mouthful of toast.

“Oh!” says Ruth, her smile huge as she pours herself another mug of coffee. 

I glance at Waverly, wait for her to chime in with some variation of _ oh _ as well, but she chooses to stay silent, saying all that she needs with the mischievous, self-pleased look in her eyes. 

_ Just try to get out of getting our help now, Bubs_. 

“Did you already have a spell in mind for it?” Gus asks, scratching at her chin. “I’m sure we have something useful on hand. We always keep the most common spell ingredients stocked.” 

“You should have said something earlier,” Ruth chides, patting my shoulder. “This is right up our alley!”

I can’t decide whether I’m excited about the prospect of some witchcraft mojo on my side—which could make a serious difference in getting this time-sensitive demon situation under control—or if I’m embarrassed instead. Sitting here, eating other people’s food, sleeping on other people’s floors, dragging the people I care about into a battle that has nothing to do with them . . . 

It was hard enough already to not feel shitty about myself when I was living on my own in the woods.

I poke the tongs of my fork at some possibly non-existent crumbs on my plate. “Getting rid of this thing is going to take wolf magic, and outside of being a werewolf, there’s not much I know about how to use my magic.” 

Ruth hurries to refill my plate with some plump, sizzling vegan sausages before I can guilt myself out of wanting more. 

“Don’t worry, dear,” she offers me a kind smile. “Figuring it out is part of the fun!”

Yeah, haha. Fun with demons, _ my favorite_!

(Yes, I am always this grumpy in the morning, thank you for asking). 

“Do you mind if we use the back room for the morning, Aunt Gus?” Waverly asks, clearing away her dishes from the table and moving to the sink to begin washing them. 

Gus shrugs. “Sure thing, Waves. But I have to warn you—and you probably know this better than I do—we don’t have many books on werewolf magic. There aren’t a lot of books written in the first place.” 

“Hmm,” Ruth murmurs, cozying up her hands to leech the fading warmth from her coffee. “There aren’t a lot of books, no. But you’ll want to check all the back issues of the _Salem Society_ _Journal_. Particularly if you see anything by Daniel Osbourne or John Landis.” 

“We did just get in that copy of that syllabry by Maria Ouspenskaya,” Gus notes. “The Russians do tend to be more advanced in the area of wolf magic in particular.” 

The Russians were the first to land a spacecraft on the moon’s surface, makes sense they’d know a thing or two about us who are lunar-inclined. 

“Or,” Ruth chuckles, downs the last dregs of her coffee. “You could always just experiment!”

She gives me and Waverly a wink that could be considered to mean something significant, but I’m not sure what, so I blink back at her dumbly. 

“I don’t know about that,” I mutter, rubbing at my arm. “I did some experimenting, and it didn’t end so well. Nothing catastrophic, luckily, but being stuck in wolf form and not being able to get back was not great.”

_ Not great_? That’s a little generous. 

_ Worst fucking month of my life _ is more accurate. 

Okay, so just between us, the month-as-a-wolf phase was a while ago, like, maybe five months ago? My sense of time since I’ve been on the outs with the cult has been admittedly a little off, so I’m not sure how accurate that measurement is, but suffice it to say, it wasn’t yesterday. 

Yeah.

I’m willing to duke it out with the demon in the forest any day of the week—put the boxing gloves on my fists and throw me in the ring—but attempting to use wolf magic again? 

I’d rather watch an all male version of _ Pitch Perfect_. Twice. 

I finish off my sausage, mournfully refuse a third helping from Ruth, and hurry over to help Waverly with the dishes. 

“The aunties are big on spell invention,” Waverly informs me, handing me a plate that I set in the dishwasher. 

“Waverly,” Gus calls out from the hallway. “It’s time for me to open up the store for customers, but be sure to let me know if either of you needs something.”

With a flick of her fingers, Gus has transformed from her pink, fluffy robe (still unnerving, though I’m not brave enough to question) into a sharp, well-tailored blazer and slacks. 

“You’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you want,” Ruth adds, snapping her fingers as well to reveal a loosely fitting sweater and ankle-length skirt. “We’d love to have you.”

“Thanks, Ms.—thanks Ruth,” I quickly adjust.

She waves as she and Gus walk towards the door. “You learn fast. Oh, and I almost forgot, Waverly, Chrissy Nedley called this morning. She said she might stop by.” 

“Aw shit strumpets!” Waverly drops the plate in her hand into the sink with a resounding _ clank_!

I wince, my eyes watering in response to the high-pitched sound of ceramic meeting metal. I rub at my ears, fighting back the indignant howl building in the back of my throat. 

“She wasn’t kidding about showing up this morning, was she?” I ask, gently nudging Waverly out of the way with my hip, so I can take over dish duty.

If she notices, she doesn’t say anything. I began scrubbing at the dishes in earnest, working through my guilt with each swipe of the sponge. 

“I forgot to call her,” Waverly moans, shaking her head. “She’s gonna kill me!”

“You’ve got that right, Short Stack!” Chrissy announces, strutting into the kitchen like she owns the place. 

Waverly yelps, whips around so her back is no longer facing Chrissy.

“Don’t you ever knock?” Waverly demands, half-serious, half-joking, one hand clutching at her chest. 

Chrissy shrugs. “Nah. Not if the door’s unlocked.” 

It’s weird for me to see Chrissy Nedley.

I don’t know if she’ll even remember me, for starters.

We were kind of close in high school, formal acquaintances by default, you might say, what with her being best friends with Waverly and my being best friends with Wynonna. Not to mention that Nedley and I were always coming up with the most random excuses to run into each other at the station.

Here’s the thing, though: Chrissy was also busy being in with the ‘cool kids’ crowd, and I was decidedly _ not_.

Speaking of which:

Stephanie Jones, if you’re reading this, I think you’re dumb.

That’s right. 

I said it.

“You’re _ kidding _ me!” Chrissy takes a look at me, starts giggling. “Nicole Haught? What brings you back to Purgatory, you tall glass of cold water!”

She goes in for the hug while I go in for the handshake, leading to a very awkward dance and mess of mismatched, conjoined limbs that might constitute for a happy reunion. 

“So you didn’t wake up Wynonna,” Waverly says, grateful.

“Oh no, I definitely did,” Chrissy snatches up a vegan sausage from the leftovers plate, stuffs it in her mouth and practically swallows it whole. “But she went right back to sleep. I should’ve known she’d be no help in getting you to spill your secrets. So I take it Nicole is your secret guest?”

“Yeah,” Waverly admits, face pink. “We ran into each other in the woods last night. I offered her a place to stay for the next little while.” 

I can’t help the _ whoop _ I feel in my stomach seeing Waverly blush at mentioning I’m her “secret guest”. Has a nice little ring to it, doesn’t it? 

Call me crazy, but a wolf can’t help but think . . . maybe Waverly has caught some feels of her own? Then again, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

“Care to share more of what happened last night?” Chrissy asks, helping herself to a cup of coffee. 

I hop up onto the edge of the countertop, not able to hide my smugness as Waverly eyes my long legs with envy. 

“Well, hmm,” Waverly crosses her arms over her chest. “It all started out not too long after we got off the phone. I saw Nic as a wolf, recognized them immediately, and then I chased after them until we ran into some nasty half-dead horse demon.” 

“What?!” I sputter, choke, and then nearly tumble off from my perch at the countertop in my shock. 

Waverly laughs, pats my knee affectionately. “It’s okay, Nic, Chrissy knows I’m a witch. I told her ages ago. Honestly, being upfront about the existence of magic and witches was a lot more believable than all the excuses I was coming up with.” 

Besides the Earps, my family, and the werewolf-loving cult members, I can’t say that I would have ever predicted that _ Chrissy Nedley _ would be the next person to find out about my big, hairy secret. I don’t know that I would have _ ever _ predicted she’d find out. 

I hope the first person she tells isn’t her dad. 

“So that white wolf I’ve been seeing for the past couple days,” Chrissy rounds on me, eyes narrowed and searching mine for the most minute evidence of deceit. “That was you?”

“Uh,” I trail off, sheepish. “Yep, that was me.” 

“Are you kidding me?” she demands, now turning on Waverly. “You didn’t tell me werewolves were real, too!”

“Sorry, Chrissy,” Waverly says, tugging on mine and Chrissy’s sleeves to pull us in the direction of her bedroom. “I didn’t realize it would be relevant for me to specify at the time that I told you. Besides, what did you expect?”

“It’s just,” Chrissy pauses, throws her hands up in exasperation. “How? That doesn’t make any sense! How do you get your molecules to change like that? Have you no respect for the laws of science?”

Disrespecting science is one of the few things I have not yet been accused of. Add it to my tab, Chrissy. Add it to. My. Tab. 

“You’re telling me,” I mutter as we step into the threshold of Waverly’s room. 

“All right,” Waverly announces, clasping her hands together. “The only way we’re going to make any headway on solving this demon problem is with a little research. So, Nicole,” she turns to me. 

“Chrissy and I are going to leave you in here to change into something _ warm_—meaning my definition of warm and not _ yours_—so we don’t freeze downstairs in the library.” She turns back to Chrissy. “Chrissy, you and I are going to stand outside and talk loudly while I change into my sweater, so Nicole doesn’t feel left out of our conversation. Questions?” 

“I think you pretty much covered it,” I say, accepting my backpack from Waverly, who’s holding it out with a smile. “And _ thanks_.” 

She nods, saving me from the hassle of explaining exactly what it is that I mean with my gratitude, and she closes the door part way. It’s closed so that a passerby couldn’t see through into Waverly’s room, but her ongoing conversation with Chrissy isn’t stifled. 

“I hate magic!” Chrissy whines through the crack in the doorway. 

I stifle my laughter, afraid of ruining what appears to be a tenuous friendship with my long-time high school acquaintance. 

I’m still reeling from Waverly’s kindness in allowing me some extra privacy to change. I would’ve sucked it up if she’d asked me to (or if she hadn’t asked at all and merely assumed), but knowing that she remembers some of our whispered conversations about how uncomfortable I am with my body? 

It definitely feels like something, maybe even something special. 

I wrestle my orange hoodie over my plain black tee, and though it feels stifling hot at the moment, I know Waverly was right to advise me to dress for sub-zero temps. 

I guess with the ancient heating system of the Homestead, there’s a lot of variability in the temperature of different parts of the house. The basement, which contains the famous Earp witchcraft library, is easily 30 degrees cooler at any given time than the other rooms. 

“Werewolf: reporting for duty,” I say, stepping back into the hallway.

I do a little twirl to show off my new outfit. Waverly is kind enough to offer me a tepid applause.

“You want to help, Chrissy?” Waverly asks, gesturing to the stairway leading to the basement. “We’re trying to research werewolf magic!”

I love this side of Waverly; she’s so damn smart. I can’t say that her enthusiasm for research is contagious (it’s not), but the dreadful thought of spending an afternoon in the company of dusty old books is a lot more tolerable with Waverly in it. 

“Sure, sure,” Chrissy sighs, making her way down the stairs. “I’ll help.” 

We settle into the library scene with relative ease, Waverly setting a handful of books each in mine and Chrissy’s arms and taking several volumes into her own as a starting point. Waverly cuddles up close to me as we huddle together in identical sitting positions on the floor, murmuring something indecipherable about sharing warmth. 

I glance over at her when I’m pretty sure she isn’t looking, and I revel in what I see: I take in the gentle waves framing her face, the way she chews on the side of her mouth as she’s concentrating, how she taps her finger on the page as she reads. 

_ Waverly Earp_, I want to say, _ you are a vision_.

She looks over at me as if to catch my wandering eyes, but I’ve already looked away and put on the face of someone deeply engrossed with their research. My lips are itching to smirk, though, and I wonder what she sees as she looks at me. 

Her brows furrow, but she turns back to her book all the same, her telltale huff of air an indication that maybe she’s feeling the slightest bit put out. 

I’ll admit it, I’m feeling sleepy. 

The comfortable weight of Waverly leaning against me combined with the dull words of _ A Witch’s Introductory Guide to Magic _ is more than enough to send me into a light doze. I don’t want to look like I’m slacking, though, so I struggle to stay awake, trying not to adjust my position too much and scare Waverly off. 

It isn’t long before Waverly’s cats find us and are delighted at the ease and accessibility of all of our laps, curling into little black cat balls there and purring.

Maybe we won’t find anything useful, but I can’t bring myself to care too much yet. I’m far too content, close to Waverly like this. 

I could stay here all day long. 

* * *

_ Three Hours Later _

“This is useless!” Waverly complains, throwing another book to the side, joining the ever-growing pile of resources already deemed _ non-helpful_.

“I’m telling you,” Chrissy says, setting aside her copy of _ Science and Magic: Are They Really So Different? _ “Magic is the woooooorsstttttt.”

I can’t say that I am disinclined to agree. 

Between my constant anxiety spiral taking my thoughts back to my time stuck as a wolf, this whole demon-wolf prophecy to begin with, and the apparent lack of interest or care in my breed from the general magic community, I’m _ exhausted_. 

“Hey,” Waverly warns, brandishing her wand like a threat in Chrissy’s direction. 

“Woah,” Chrissy’s hands fly up in the symbol of a truce. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’m only kidding. Probably. Mostly. Actually, I’m not kidding.”

“Remind me again how magic is the worst?” Waverly taps the tip of her wand against the edge of Chrissy’s coffee mug, filling it instantly with a steaming hot refill. 

“You never disappoint Waverly Earp,” Chrissy hums in appraisal, lifts the cup to her lips. “Mmm, _ damn_. Cream and sugar, too? Okay, point taken. Consider my comment officially rescinded.”

I tilt my head in Waverly’s direction. 

“Magic _ research _ is still the worst, though,” I assert. 

Waverly grumbles, rests her chin on her hand. “Maybe we’re looking in the wrong places?”

“No way,” I shake my head. “We’ve looked everywhere!”

The nearly empty shelves of the library will testify in my favor. There isn’t much we’ve left untouched, unexplored. 

“And it’s been hours!” Chrissy reminds us, holding Phoebe the cat close for emphasis. “I’m all about helping you two out with this demon thing, but if you ask me, we’re not going to find the answer in any of these books.” 

I can’t help feeling that Chrissy is right, much as I am loathe to admit it. 

For all my qualms about research, I’ll be honest and say I was hoping to find the answer in one of these texts somewhere. I was hoping to find something that was straightforward, maybe even easy, but at the very least, _ not _ something to put me at risk _ again _ for getting stuck in furry mode.

Waverly stands up, brushes off the hem of her skirt. “Maybe the aunties are right. Maybe we need to experiment.”

Chrissy deposits Phoebe on the ground, stands as well. “Oh yeah, I think you two should definitely _ experiment_.” 

I don’t have time to feel embarrassed before Waverly is yelling at Chrissy, a mad flush across her face. “Oh my _ gosh_, Chrissy!”

“Well, full time work calls, losers,” Chrissy sticks out her tongue, flashes us _ what I hope _ is the relatively harmless peace sign with her fingers. “But let me know how _ experimenting _ goes.” 

We stand there, frozen, looking everywhere but each other, and watch, transfixed, as Chrissy thunders up the stairs, out the front door. An uneasy laughter falls upon us, and I find myself rubbing the back of my neck (I’m not sure that Waverly would know it yet, but it’s a dead giveaway that I’m feeling awkward). 

“Well,” Waverly lets out a breath. 

As bummed as I am that we didn’t get any further with the library, I know it must be Waverly who feels the most defeated. I feel myself reaching out for her hand before I think better of it. 

“Sorry we didn’t get far, Nicole,” she apologizes. “Do you wanna . . . do you want to go for a walk? Maybe some movement will get our brains working.”

Waverly scrambles about the room without waiting for my answer, setting all of our abandoned books back in their proper places on the shelves. I reach out and grab a book to help, but Waverly tears it from my fingers before I can even figure out where it goes. 

“Yeah, let’s do that,” I agree, gathering up a small pile of books and handing them to Waverly, so I can still feel helpful without getting in the way.

Come to think of it, that’s my default function with Waverly. Always trying to be helpful while staying out of her way.

We make quick work of cleaning up the library, keeping a companionable silence as we (and by we, I mean Waverly) clean (while I am shooed away). 

I stretch till my back cracks, follow Waverly back up the stairs. 

There’s something strange burgeoning up in behind my rib cage, something that feels suspiciously like hope, and I’m not sure if I want to quash it now before the blow of defeat or if I want to hold on it to it with everything I have and everything I am. 

Fucking hell of a thing, hope is. 

Who am I, Yoda?

What the _ fuck_. 

* * *

Black Cats Bookstore and Café is festive as hell, even if the festivity is perhaps only appropriate mid-August-ish through the end of October.

There are hand cut paper pumpkins, ghosts, and spiders peering down at us in all their crafted cuteness from garlands strung up around every available corner of the store. 

Waverly and I walk through the back entrance, where we are quick to find Gus stringing up _ more _ Halloween decorations, and Ruth drying the inside of a freshly washed miniature cauldron. I notice that Gus is walking around with a slight limp I hadn’t noticed from breakfast this morning, and I frown. 

They don’t notice us as first, distracted with the necessary chores of running the shop, and we manage to overhear the last, lingering snippets of their conversation. 

“I always thought they were so sweet together,” Ruth declares, brushing her long, curly grey hair over her shoulder. “Childhood friends? They could star in their own Hallmark movie.”

Gus lets out a snort, shakes her head. “Well, they would certainly be a step up from that awful boy, that _Champ_ _character._ Who lets their son nickname himself after wins from a rodeo? I should have called child protective services.”

“Are you talking about that Hardy boy?” Ruth sticks out her tongue, shudders. “Eurgh!”

“And then there was that . . . ” Gus begins. 

Ruth frantically grabs on to Gus’s arm, hisses and points in our direction.

I have to stifle my laughter as I watch them trip over themselves in a desperate attempt to effect the picture of normalcy. 

“Oh nothing,” Ruth says in a voice just a shade too bright to be genuine before she catches herself and immediately embarks on busying herself with some documents hidden beneath the cash register. 

She clears her throat. “How’s it coming along, dears?”

“Any luck?” Gus asks, her dark eyes flashing. 

“Well . . . ” Waverly begins. 

She pauses and looks to me for approval. I nod.

“We’re going to take your advice, I think,” she says.

Ruth beams with pride. “Now just be careful,” she says, wagging her finger. “Once upon a time, I was inventing a spell of my own—”

“—and you were stuck in a jar for a week,” Waverly finishes gently with a giggle. 

What is it with spells backfiring and ending up stuck as _ creatures _ or else _ inanimate objects _ (and I have to hand it to Ruth here—she’s got me beat in terms of victims of transfiguration club for sure) for extended periods of time? You’d think these things would come with warning labels by now. 

“That wasn’t even the worst part!” Ruth laughs. “The itch was something _ terrible_, let me tell you.” 

“Anybody home?” interrupts a vaguely familiar sing-song voice, chiming in time with the bell attached to the front door. 

“Constance Clootie, dear, how are you?” Ruth asks, ushering her on to the main floor of the shop. 

“Mrs. C?” I ask, surprised. 

“Nicole Haught!” she gasps, pulling me in for a mercifully short-lasting hug. “I’d heard you were back in town. It’s been far too long! How are you, sweetheart? Goodness, you feel like you’re all bones. Have you been eating?”

“Hi Mrs. C,” I answer shyly. 

“Mrs. Clootie,” Waverly says politely.

There’s a certain coolness there, though, and I can’t quite place it. I make a note to ask Waverly about it later. 

“You remember Mrs. C?” I ask Waverly. “She ran the after school program the year things got really bad with my dad. She saved my life.”

“Oh hush, now,” Mrs. C brushes me off, though she seems to glow in response to the praise. “I won’t keep you, Nicole. It looks like you’re busy. But stop by sometime for tea, yes? I want to catch up on everything!”

“I’ve got your potions ingredients order right here!” Ruth announces, holding up a caddy laden with two glasses, one full of a purple colored liquid, and the other a green. “I made them just the way you like them; the ground walnut wood couldn’t be fresher!” 

“Thank you, thank you, you really have the best service, I must say,” says Mrs. C as she hands Ruth her credit card. 

She leans against the counter, runs her finger along the edge, curls up her nose at some imaginary dust. “I heard there was some commotion last night at the Witchwood State Park. That’s not far from your house, is it? I hope everything is all right.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gus cuts in with a grunt. “Just a spot of trouble in the forest. Nothing our Waverly couldn’t handle.” 

“Yes, well,” Clootie adjusts her long coat. “Please know that you can call me for help with magic anytime you need, Miss Waverly. I’ve love to be of assistance if you need it.” 

“Thank you!” Waverly replies through somewhat gritted teeth. 

It’s Waverly, so of course she somehow always manages to play the appearance of charming and nice no matter how she’s really feeling, but I don’t miss the beat of sarcasm there and the look I see Gus and Ruth exchange behind her that’s less than friendly. 

What’s with the third degree?

Okay, I get it. 

Clootie is a little bit _ much_. 

Her cheap mascara tends to run (though you can’t fault anyone for that, I don’t understand why anyone with eyelashes is expected to automatically know how to use the stuff. Good thing I gave up on it years ago), she can get on the eccentric side of life, and yeah, okay, she’s a little weird about being borderline codependent with her husband and sons, but she did a lot for me.

And there’s not many people about whom I can say the same. 

“We witches have to stick together, after all!” Clootie beams, reaches down for potions. “Oh, Nicole. You wouldn’t mind stepping outside with me for a minute, would you? I have something quick to say about your parents.”

  
“Oh, uh, sure, yeah,” I shove my hands in my pockets, not daring to glance behind me and witness the indignant looks the Earp-Gibson-Baldwins are sure to be sending me. 

Just as I’m leaving earshot, I hear Ruth whisper under her breath:

_ “Do you ever get the feeling she’s trying to one up us?” _

And I hear Gus respond, though she cares far less about subtlety, if the volume of her voice is any indication:

_ “All the time.” _

I’m a little underdressed for the crisp autumn breeze outside (don’t tell Waverly—I’ve never been cold in my whole life if she asks, okay? Okay), so I bury my hands deeper into the confines of my hoodie, trying to hold off a shiver. 

“I’m sorry to lure you out here under the pretenses of news about your parents,” Mrs. C starts, and I can see the regret heavy in her eyes. “There’s something I need to tell you about your company. More specifically, Ruth and Gus.” 

“Ruth and Gus?” I repeat back, dumbfounded. “They’ve been letting me stay with them.”

I don’t know why that statement sounds like an excuse coming out of my mouth right now, but it does. And I notice that it’s an excuse Mrs. C isn’t really interested in buying.

“Look, Nicole,” she cups my shoulders, searches my eyes. “I saw Gus and Ruth today in the forest. They went after the demon today on their own without telling you or Waverly.”

“Wait, what?” I pull back from her, alarmed. 

They wouldn’t do that. 

_ Would they? _

I mean, I know they seemed pretty excited about helping this morning at breakfast, but it wouldn’t make any sense for them to get after the demon by themselves when I _ told them _ it would take wolf magic to defeat.

I don’t think between the two of them it would necessarily be dangerous, but then again, Waverly is pretty powerful, and we narrowly got away last night. 

“Did you notice that Gus wasn’t moving so well?” Mrs. C chews on her rouge-colored bottom lip, looks at me with obvious pity. 

It’s all I can do to nod, my mouth dry and my body numb.

“Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but I knew you’d want to know,” she says, sympathetic. “Gus was hurt trying to get rid of the demon. She and Ruth barely made it out alive, to tell you the truth. Some of the other magical creatures living in the forest tried to help them, but they were hurt, too.”

I feel like all of my organs are slowly falling out of me through the soles of my feet. 

I still can’t speak, the promise of tears far too close. 

I can sense Mrs. C watching me, but I can’t seem to force myself to interact. 

My shame is hot and blinding, like a sucker punch to the gut, and I choke on it. 

_ You did this, Nicole. This is your fault_. 

I think about the Earps—think about how in the last twenty-four hours _ alone _ they’ve offered me a warm spot on their floor away from the cold, their food, their support. 

I think about Waverly, one of my only real friends during some of the most painful times of my life. Is this how I plan to repay her kindness? By getting Gus hurt?

And for what? For something that has literally _ nothing _ to do with her?

For something that I should’ve handled myself?

Shit. 

If only I wasn’t the _ fucking _ worst at wolf magic. I should have just kept to my _ fucking _ self, leave the damn Earps out of my dumpster fire of a life.

They deserve so much better than this.

So much better than _ me_. 

“I can see that this a lot to take in,” Mrs. C notes kindly, giving me some space. “I remember how important it was for you to maintain your privacy when you were a kid, and I figured you deserved to know.” 

“Thanks,” I manage, my voice cracking and half-strangled. “You were right, Mrs. C. I did want to know. I’ll, uh, I’ll catch up with you later, yeah? I need some time to myself right now, if that’s okay.” 

“Of course, Nicole,” she hands me a scrap piece of paper with her number written on it. “You’ll call me if you need something, won’t you?” 

I’m back to mute mode now, so I give her a half-hearted wave and turn on my heel, walking away in the direction of the old bench not far away from Black Cats Bookstore and Café. 

For a long time, it was Waverly’s and my rendezvous point. 

We’d meet here after school, right before we went inside to help out or hang out at Aunt Gus’ shop, and it was our time for just the two of us. It wasn’t like the bench was somehow secret—it’s kind of in plain view of anyone from inside the shop—but for some reason, other people let us be for a while when we were there. 

The wood is smooth, worn, as I sit down. It groans with the weight of its age as I settle in. 

_ What am I going to do? _ I ask into the palms of my hands, studying the lines of my hands to distract my eyes from the urge to cry.

I’ve got to fix this. 

I’ve got to fix this, and I have no idea how. 

* * *

_ One Hour Later _

  
  


“_NICOLE RAYLEIGH HAUGHT_!” demands a visibly distressed Waverly. “You better have one _ heck _ of an explanation! You’ve been outside in the cold for an hour! I will _ kill _ you if you’re sick!”

As I may have mentioned before, Waverly has what you might call _ intense _ feelings about the cold. 

I rub my watering nose against my sleeve. 

“I’m not cold at all,” I grumble, though my unusually nasal voice has caused my _ not _ to sound a lot more like _ got_. 

“What are you doing out here?” Waverly demands, throwing her arms around me. “Hmm?”

She’s most def annoyed, but it’s pretty adorable that she doesn’t want me to freeze. 

“Let’s go back inside,” I suggest, trying to use her hold on me as leverage to walk us both back to the safety and sanctity of the indoors. 

I’m not going to have Waverly turn into a popsicle on my account. 

“Nuh-uh,” Waverly shakes her head furiously, holds on to me more tightly. “We are not moving an _ inch _ until you tell me what you’re doing out here. And you _ know _ how easily I get cold. So I guess we’ll both die of hypothermia today.”

“Unless. You. Learn. To. Stop. Keeping. In. All. Your. Emotions.” she says, punctuating each word with a tap against my nose.

I can’t help my sigh. “Waves—”

“Nope. Absolutely not, Nic, do not start with that ‘Waves’ crap. I know _ exactly _ what you’re up to. It’s not like we met yesterday.” 

“I don’t know what to say,” I complain weakly, and like, I get it—I know that is the lamest thing I could say. So I can’t begrudge Waverly her frustrated reaction.

“Okay, fine, I’ll start,” she takes in a short breath. “I missed you, Nicole. I missed you so bad it friggin’ hurt. Of course I still had Chrissy and Wynonna and the aunties, and I’m so grateful for them, but it was hard for me to feel close to anyone after you left.”

“Ah _ fuck_,” I whine, try to throw off Waverly’s grip on me. “I can’t do this, Waves. I seriously mess up everything and everyone I touch. You shouldn’t be around me anymore.”

“You sit your butt down and listen to me, Nicole Haught,” Waverly yanks me back down. “I _ never _ forgot about you. I wrote you these stupid love letters, looked you up on Facebook, after you left, I tried to find you _ everywhere_.” 

Wait a second. 

Are you all reading this with me now? Did Waverly just say the words _ love _ and then _ letters_? 

I must be dreaming. 

“You were the first person I trusted with my secret,” I say, finally.

I don’t want to talk, so naturally, all of the words are flooding out of my mouth. 

“My parents told me I shouldn’t tell anyone, that I should hide it forever,” I confide. 

I flash back to a time that I was sobbing at the end of my bed as my dad yelled at me. I’d gotten lost somehow that night mid-transformation, and I almost didn’t make it back to my home in time before the sun rose. I stumbled in my room at twilight, elated that I’d made it, when my dad caught me. 

_ You could’ve been seen_, he said, like it was a swear word. 

I was afraid, then, to be visible. 

“Talking to you about it was the first time I felt like maybe what they said wasn’t true,” I say. “That maybe they were wrong.” 

I chuckle to myself. “I’m really sorry I never saw you pop up on Facebook. You remember how strict my parents were about internet stuff in high school.”

“Ha, yeah, I remember,” Waverly’s laugh is silly and light. It’s a sound I wish I could bottle up and keep forever. 

“Remember when Wynonna cooked up that hare-brained plan for us to kidnap you from your house, so you could hang out with us?” she asks. 

“Of course. How could I ever forget that?” I notice that our hands are nearly touching, and I poke my pinky against hers. 

She makes an exaggerated show of ripping her hand out of reach. 

“I wish I had been able to read one of those love letters too,” I say, my smile wide and sly. “I care about you a lot, Honeybee. I hope you know that.”

“I would say between the two of us, if someone was to forget how much they were cared for,” Waverly says, using her wand to conjure up a rose that she sets delicately in my hands. “It would be you.”

Well, damn. Bring on the truth bombs. 

“Look,” I hold up the rose to my face and scoot closer, closing the already small gap between us. “This whole thing is . . . it’s a mess, Waverly. A mess I’m really struggling to clean up right now. But, for whatever it’s worth, I’m glad it brought me back here. Back to _ you_.” 

“At the risk of being too nostalgic,” Waverly says, takes the rose back into her own hands. “Do you remember the night when you left? When we almost—?”

“I remember, yeah.”

“Do you think we could . . . ?”

“I’d like that a lot.”

I’m closing my eyes, leaning in, can almost taste Waverly’s cherry-flavored, organic, vegan, zero-waste chapstick, when—

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“SUP BITCHES!” Wynonna grabs on to the top of the bench, shakes it as hard as she can. “EARTHQUAKE!”

The force of it nearly knocks all three of us to the ground. 

“_WYNONNA!_” Waverly shrieks, outraged. 

She flies off the bench, spitting the hair out of her mouth as she chases after her older sister, her minuscule body practically vibrating with rage. 

When I’ve had enough time to recover from the shock, the first thing I notice is the rather odd choice of print on Wynonna’s shirt. 

“Earp, what the hell are you wearing?” 

“Oh, this old thing?’” Wynonna asks, keeping Waverly at bay with her outstretched hand. 

She proudly plucks at the cartoon beaver emblazoned across her front. 

“Tonight’s the rise of the Beaver Moon, Haught,” she explains. 

“It’s also called the Frost Moon and Mourning Moon, but you would focus on that one name, Wynonna,” Waverly interjects and rolls her eyes, indignant as she can be in her current state of duress.

“Right, well anyway,” Wynonna continues. “Got to dress right for the occasion, you know. Besides, don’t lesbians already know all about the stars and shit? You’re slacking. Where have you been living, Red—under_ a rock_?” 

“Forest, actually,” I correct. 

“Ah,” Wynonna smirks. “Nice one, Ginger Snaps. So speaking of moons, shouldn’t you, like, I don’t know? Start preparing for the up and coming Professor Lupin act?”

I stare into the wide expanse of the sky above us, note the darkness starting to set in along the edges. My watch beeps a two minute till wolf time warning. 

“Yeah,” I agree, and I feel myself slump. “I guess . . . I guess I should.”

“Cool,” Wynonna backs up several spaces, drags Waverly with her. “We’ll head back to the Homestead, wait for you to turn back into your annoying narc self there. Do you need anything before we go?”

“I’m okay,” I say, listless. “Thanks, though.”

I wonder how many times I can say _ I’m okay _ to people before I start believing it? I’m pretty sure I have several iterations yet . . . 

“Hey,” Waverly breaks away from Wynonna, comes and stands next to me.

“You should go, Waves,” I knock my hand against hers. “I’ll meet you back at the Homestead when I’m me again. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t go into the forest and play the hero. Not tonight, anyway. I’ll be good.” 

“You better,” she holds up my watch for inspection, and we watch together as the seconds count us down closer to the full moon. “I could stay with you, if you wanted?” 

“Thank you,” I say, and the sentiment feels paltry in comparison to the overwhelming gratitude I actually feel. “I _ do _ want that, but not yet. Someday, okay? Someday soon.”

“Soon,” she repeats, walking backwards towards Wynonna and waving until she’s nearly out of sight. 

“Soon,” I say to myself, flinch as my back begins to bowl over, fur crawls up my sides.

  
  
  
  


_ Soon_. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming back. 
> 
> As always, please feel free to bug me on Twitter @neveroutofstyl1


	3. No, you don't understand. I'm a werewolf, I have unnatural sexual allure.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicole has another brush with demon horsey and loses (oops), Wynonna talks Nicole out of their pit of deep despair, WayHaught exchanges some secrets and apologies, Gus demands that dinner be prepared with no rude interruptions, and after a 27236 word-wait, you give the people what they want ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear reader. Welcome back.
> 
> If you've ever tried to write, and all of you have, you'll find that writing is hard. It's a lot of fun, and it can be an amazing way of expressing yourself, but it's difficult. When you have people that you know are enjoying the ride alongside you, that's when it becomes doable. So thank you. Thank you for being here, and allowing me to do something that makes me feel the most 'me'. 
> 
> I would like to thank my two betas:
> 
> @Poetoaster, thank you for introducing me to this story in the first place, for encouraging me to run with it. Thank you for cheering me on along the way, for doing the first read through of this chapter in its infantile state.
> 
> @Em_McConachie: thank you for sacrificing your sleep to make this project what it is today. Without you, we wouldn't be here. Thank you for your gentle guidance, encouragement, and correction; this story is so much more than it could have ever amounted to without you. Our friendship story is my favorite WE fanfiction ever written. 
> 
> (Do yourself a favor and read her fic here if you haven't already: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15215519/chapters/35289644  
and please leave a comment!)

> _ **Tell me your secrets** _
> 
>   
_ **And ask me your questions** _
> 
>   
_ **Oh let's go back to the start** _
> 
> _ **The Scientist, Coldplay** _

The second Waverly and Wynonna fade out of sight, I make a mad (but _ quiet_) dash into the woods. 

Okay, okay, before you bring out your pitchforks and start in with your _ Ooh, there goes Haught with the martyr complex again _ speeches (and I’m not saying I don’t deserve them, certainly I _ do_), let me just say that I do intend to keep my promise to Waverly.

I’m not leaving her or Purgatory (_not yet, anyway_), and I will be back to greet her at the Homestead first thing in the morning, once the sun comes back up.

I’m just hoping that there will be one less horse demon in the world by then. 

My heart thumps in my ears as I run, the beat keeping in rhythm with the cadence of my paws hitting the underbrush, and I feel the strange but familiar sensation that I’m more alive than I was before when I was human.

I don’t have the exact science to back it up (and based on the dearth of werewolf-centric resources available, I’m guessing there is _ no _ research available to back it up), but I think being a werewolf is more energy-cost-intensive than being a human. 

I think my heart as a wolf actually beats faster. Maybe even time itself moves faster. 

I’m not sure I know what any of that means. 

But I don’t really have the luxury now to think on it, because as soon as my feet skid to a reluctant stop, I hear the call of the horse demon.

Now when I say I hear the call of the demon, you might think, oh, yeah, the demon is making some sound, saying it knows you’re in the forest, blah, blah, blah. Oooh, scary. 

But when I say it’s a call, I don’t mean that it’s a grunt or horse’s whiney or some other kind of general sound—I mean it’s a call. A call for me.

This demon is actually beckoning me, _ inviting _ me to come in to the trees further, to come closer to it. Somewhere within its _ reach_. 

I never thought I’d be the type of person to actually use the word _ beckon _ in a meaningful way, but here we are. 

There’s a part of me that almost wants to smile, because the way it’s talking (_talking_? We’re going to call it talking) is almost taunting me in a way. 

Well, isn’t that nice? Just some easy, playful banter between two, supernaturally inclined friends.

Some playful banter slated to end in _ death_. 

Well, _ damn_. I’m torn. 

Doing this would mean I’d finally be doing something right, something I should have done the moment I set foot in my old stomping grounds.

And _ yet_. 

There’s a part of me that knows if Waverly knew what I was up to right now (and inevitably she will find out; I cannot lie to that girl to save my life, so help me), that she would be upset. 

There’s not much I wouldn’t do to avoid making Waverly feel anything besides happy. 

Is turning against my own instincts one of those things?

There was something in the way she looked at me right before we parted ways. I think she wanted to trust me, then. I think I wanted to trust her back. 

But we got stuck at the _ want _ part and never got to the actual trusting bit. Oops? 

I know that with each step further I take into the heart of the woods, I’m taking one step away from earning that with Waverly. 

Which one is the most important to me?

My feet keep moving. 

_ I’m sorry, Waves_, I think, and it feels like I’ve been repeating that phrase an awful lot these days. Just call me repeat-o wolf! I hope I can cut that out soon. It’s not a good look for me. 

Waverly deserves far better than me, that much is for sure. But I wonder if I can’t become the type of person she needs. If not now, then maybe someday. 

_ She wrote me love letters_.

Yeah. 

Me. 

Someone wrote _ love letters _ to _ me_. 

I stumble back into the present as I realize that I’ve made it to the heart of the forest, and only a handful of leaves separate me from demon Seabiscuit.

While the covering of the underbrush is thick enough that the little brute (ha! _ little_) and I can’t see each other, we’re close enough that I can hear the whistle of its steaming breath through the tree branches, the sound of it pawing at the ground, anxious for my arrival.

What’s it going to be now, Haught?

The girl? Or your _ pride_? 

I grit my teeth, inwardly groan. 

No one told me it was going to be like this, that I’d come here and have to make these types of choices. 

I showed up here, didn’t I? 

_ Isn’t that enough? _

I showed up here, knowing it probably wasn’t going to end well for me, and I didn’t run away.

Doesn’t that count for something? Is whoever’s keeping score paying any attention?

The horse demon neighs, soft and low. 

_ Yeah_, I think at it. _ I know you’re there. Don’t worry, friend; I didn’t forget_. 

I remember the way I saw Gus limping around the store. She’s too damn stubborn a woman to let the true nature of her pain show, but I knew from the way that her leg dragged behind her and how the lines of her face stood in sharp relief that it hurt. 

It hurt _ bad_. 

And I wonder, could that have all been avoided if I could have just gotten _ my fucking shit _ together and gotten a handle on my _ fucking _ wolf magic instead of wandering around with my tail between my legs?

Ooh, Waverly, boo hoo, I don’t know how to use my magic! Please, someone tell me what to do!

I’m such a _ fucking _ whiner. 

I don’t know what kind of wound the horse has doled out on Gus, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes _ weeks _ to heal. Weeks of her life that she’ll never get back, weeks that she’ll feel pain for every step she takes.

And I can’t help but think that I did this to her. That I’m responsible. 

My indecision, my fear, my lack of control over who I am, _ what _ I am, did this to her.

I know that Waverly’s going to have a hard time forgiving me for what I’m about to do, and I wonder how far this will set us back. Well, I mean, there’s no _ us_. 

Ugh. Whatever. 

You know what I mean.

But regardless of how Waverly may or may _ not _ react to what I do, taking care of this now means that she’s safe from this demon forever. 

Waverly, Wynonna, Alice, Gus, _ hell_, even Ruth (who has inexplicably taken a liking to me) could never be hurt by this particular demon again. 

Am I willing to give that all up just so Waverly won’t be mad at me in the morning?

  
The horse demon whines again. 

_ Leave me alone you little fucker, big decision to make here_. 

I take a glance at the moon, blinking in the yellow brightness of it. I’ve got a solid six, seven hours before the sun comes back and Nicole Haught _ the loser _ makes their reappearance.

_ Do something right, Nicole_, I urge myself. 

Okay. I breathe. 

_ Okay_. 

I leap out from the foliage and reveal my position, my lip curling back to showcase my razor-sharp teeth as my hackles rise to emphasize my point. It’s a challenge, a challenge that does not go unnoticed by my opponent, whose red eyes dart to meet mine, casual interest shining there. 

You wanted a fight?

Come on and fight me, you little _ bitch_. 

As I backpedal to gain some extra traction on my run for my initial strike, I reach down deep inside myself. 

_ Hello, wolf magic? You there? _ I imagine knocking on a door with a cartoon-ish wolf crudely painted on the outside of it. _ Come out, come out, wherever you are_. 

It’s always a good sign when you’re heading into battle completely unprepared, talking to yourself in a sing-song voice and picturing your inner soul magic self as a _ cartoon_. 

_ Fuck _ doesn’t really cut it at this point. 

Doesn’t mean I won’t try.

_ Fuck_. 

I’m sprinting full speed in a direct line towards the demon, savoring the feeling of my wolf muscles rippling and working in tandem and against each other. I’m powerful, strong; _ I can do this_. 

I watch as the demon rears back to meet me, eyes horrible and demented, foam flecking its lips. There’s the awful sound it makes, eerily akin to the scream of a child in pain. 

I’m not going to pretend that I’m the fight master here. 

Vicious werewolf inside me notwithstanding, at my core (and on my outside), I’m mostly tall and gangly, far too much _ limb _ for me to build any real power behind my punches. 

I’m too far from my own damn center of gravity. 

But there’s a couple of things I’ve picked up from here and there, and one of those things is, if something’s bigger than you, especially if it’s _ a lot _ bigger than you, your only real shot at winning is to aim for the weak spots. 

So maybe it’s a little predictable and basic white wolf of me, but as I run towards it, my line of vision laser focused on my target, I prepare myself for a jump, either towards its neck or its belly. Neither option is particularly appealing, but if I do it right, it should work. 

I don’t know how smart this thing is, if it can learn from our prior interactions, but I’m not about to gamble away my one chance, so I choose in my remaining seconds before impact to shoot for the stomach. 

I’m still not convinced this thing isn’t a mind reader.

Like clockwork, it slams its legs down, keeping them close to the vulnerable underbelly making my planned entrance impossible, but I’m going too fast, and I’m too close to adjust my course. I swing around at the last second to its hind legs, all my momentum lost as my teeth barely brush against the skin.

It neighs out in pain, rearing back and stomping as it howls, as horrible a sound as you can imagine. I must have made more of an impact than I realized.

My victory is short-lived, however, as it stares at me directly, and I see something more menacing alight in its eyes. More _ calculated_. 

I stand my ground, careful not to let any outward appearance of fear bleed through my projected image of dominance, strength. 

_ Come on, come on, _ I plead to my internal self. _ Please work your wolf magic. Please work your wolf magic. Please! _

I feel nothing.

To be fair, as a novice magic user (can I even claim novice as a title?), I have no concept of what magic should feel like. I realize that I’ve never thought to ask Waverly what I should expect. Can you tell when it’s working?

And, of course, there’s the real question I’d like the answer to: why am I thinking of all these questions now, when it’s too late?

The horse has yet to make its move, but it continues to study me, eyes roving over and around me, making note of and monitoring my position. Its unnatural stillness freaks me out, and it’s all I can do not to crawl out of my skin in a panic. 

Then suddenly, so abruptly that I think for a moment that I imagined it, the horse is rushing at me, breath steaming from its nostrils and eyes wild. I watch for a beat, trying to figure out its trajectory, so I can react accordingly.

Whatever its plan, I can’t tell, so I run to the left side of it, snapping my jaws and keeping my paws light on the ground. It stops, back legs bucking out to keep me at a distance (_no problem, buddy, I understand the concept of personal space_). 

Then with a vengeance, it turns back around and chases me, its flat, nasty ass teeth inches away from my tail. Horses are great and all, and say what you will about them, but damn, their teeth—_their fucking teeth, for hell’s sake_—are hella gross. 

I cut across its pathway, taking me out of its direct line of pursuit, so we are again facing each other. There’s no time to plan, and with the demon stalled for a few precious seconds of recalibration, I rush at it with all my speed and ferocity. 

I should’ve taken more time to plan, to aim, but this thing has me outsmarted; I know my only option now is to move more, think less. 

Okay, wolf magic, last chance. If your signature move is _ deus ex machina_, the time is _ now_!

I can see an opening—with the demon’s head cocked back, its neck is open and exposed. One critical hit there, and it’s game over. 

I’m running, so fast my feet practically aren’t touching the ground, keeping my target in sight. I leap, opening my mouth as wide as I can—

Out of nowhere, the tip of its hoof is under my chin, and there’s a click of something inside me snapping back as I fall. 

A jolt of pain surges from the point of my impact against the ground (has it always been this hard? Who knew, right?) down the path of my spine.

Huh. That’s funny.

You know, I’ve seen enough movies and TV shows and read enough books that I’m pretty familiar with the whole “everything is going black” kind of scenario. It’s usually characterized as dramatic and romantic, isn’t it?

_ The pinnacle of the action! _

_ Our hero is down! _

_ What will happen next? _

A real page turner. 

But for something that’s supposed to be thrilling, the actual thing is more like a generalized weak, woozy feeling as I cling to the last vestiges of consciousness with all my might (not currently amounting to much, in case you were curious). I feel vaguely sick, nauseated. 

I think I could throw up, maybe? 

I’m trying to roll to my side and let my stomach empty itself, but I’m not sure which way is up and which way is down, so it’s a more complicated maneuver than I remember. 

I watch through my hazy vision as the horse races towards me, and my eyes keep blinking closed like I’m falling asleep, but every time I manage to pry them back open, it’s closer. 

And closer.

Closer.

Okay, don’t laugh at me, but I always imagined the moment that I died would be more heroic? I think most people, if asked, would imagine their “ideal” (is there an ideal way to leave this earth?) deaths to be in their bed, surrounded by family (biological or found, I don’t discriminate) and loved ones, having lived a healthy, fulfilling life well into their 100s. 

Not me. 

I figured the grim reaper would show up for me sooner than most. Maybe I’d die standing in front of the love of my life, protecting them from some gruesome fate, more than likely in wolf form. 

And if you’re wondering if this hypothetical “love of my life” character looks suspiciously like an adorable witch we all know and love, I’m not dignifying your inquiry with either a confirmation or a denial.

You already know the answer to _ that_. 

Don’t worry—you don’t have to trouble yourself with telling me how sentimental I am—_I know_. 

Wynnona called me a walking bumper sticker once. I think that’s the most accurate observation of me that’s been made to date. 

Anyways. 

The horse is mere seconds away from crushing my skull and brains like a Kinder egg, and I’m kind of surprised by how calm I am, TBH? 

I feel like maybe I should be doing something other than staring at it, trying to keep my eyes open. Should I crawl away? Should I cry? But I can’t do either of those things. 

Well, Horsey, it’s been fun. Don’t miss me too much, okay? 

I’m almost what I would call happy, knowing that if I was ultimately going to fail, at least I gave it everything. I’m sure the Earps will figure something out.

They always do. 

So I stop fighting the heavy weight of my eyelids and let myself relax. 

No point in making this more painful than it has to be, right? 

_ I’ll miss you, Waverly. Hope you find someone who is a lot less hairy than I am and also nice to you and who will take you to the ocean. _

My last thought, you ask?

_ I should have kissed you when I had the chance. _

* * *

Consciousness comes back to me in the form of random, in-and-out bursts of what I think are different voices, which are speaking to each other in rushed, short conversation that I can’t understand. Oh, and the rather unpleasant sensation of being dragged backwards by my armpits.

I try to open my eyes, but they won’t budge.

I try to talk, to cry out for help, but my lips lay dormant, my mouth hanging slack. 

Well, this is _ quite _ the predicament. 

I do a quick mental inventory. The fact that I can feel my armpits means that I’m back in human form, which means it must be morning or later now. 

As my brain comes back online, one of the first things I notice is a searing pain, spreading from my hips down to the toes of my right leg. I can feel the exact spot of where I crashed into the ground (just under my right butt cheek, I know you were wondering) pulsating in time with my heartbeat. 

Did I mention beforehand that turning from human into a werewolf and then back again sucks _ ass_? 

Oh, I did, did I?

Well let me say it again, because it _ does_. 

“Shit, Haught, you need to lay off the sausages,” a voice close to me grunts. “I know they’re vegan, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have calories.” 

“Wynonna!” hisses another voice. “You have to be careful with their head! You’re going to hurt their neck if you keep throwing them around like that!”

“It’s not my fault they have a gigantic head, Waves.” 

Okay, call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure that’s Wynonna and Waverly. 

“Hand me my wand, Waverly, would you?” asks a breathless voice that sounds a lot like Ruth. “Gus and I found the spell we were looking for. We’ll take care of this.”

“I’m coming to help,” says Wynonna, and with that, she lies me down. 

“Well, I’m not just going to sit here, waiting around for that thing to attack us!” Waverly complains, and I picture her crossing her arms around her chest, her eyes narrowing. 

Wynonna sighs. “Listen, babygirl, you know I’m shit at healing spells. Besides, we can’t leave them here by themselves. They’d be totally defenseless if the horse demon somehow made it out of the forest before we finished the spell. Someone has to be here.” 

Who, me? Defenseless? _ Hardly_. 

“Well, whichever of you is coming, let’s get a move on it,” says an impatient Gus. “We don’t have much time. I want to get this spell up and running before I need to open the shop.”

“This damn thing picked the wrong town to haunt.” Wynonna cracks her knuckles. “If you really want me to, Waves, I’ll be the one to stay. But Nicole’s injuries don’t look good. I think they need you more.”

“Don’t go!” I try to make my voice sound as loud as it can, but I can hear that it’s barely more than a whisper. 

Apparently, it’s not very convincing, either, because no one responds. Typical. 

“Okay, you’re right, Wynonna.” I feel Waverly’s hand rest against my shoulder. “I’ll stay with Nicole. You’ll come right back here as soon as you’ve taken care of the demon? And you’ll come get me if you need help?”

“Of course,” Ruth promises. “Let’s get a move on it, ladies.” 

Waverly waits until the sound of their footsteps into their forest are beyond earshot before talking to me. 

“Bubs,” her voice is shaking. “How could you? I told you we’d do this _ together_.”

She sniffs. “Why couldn’t you wait for me? Don’t you trust me at all, Nic?”

_ It’s not that! _ I want to scream, but I can’t. _ I trust you, Waves. I promise_.

But I wonder, as I think it, if that’s actually true. Maybe I only want to say it to put her at ease (ooh, rough self-realization, I do not _ consent _ to these truth bombs, self-consciousness). 

Do I trust Waverly? 

Not enough to spend one wolf night without wreaking some kind of havoc. I just wanted to do the right thing . . . 

A shooting pain makes its way up my leg as the pieces of my apparently shattered femur meld together once more. 

“Ouch, _ fuck_!” and suddenly my ability to speak has been restored.

My eyes flutter open, and I have to slam them shut again immediately as the sunlight blinds me, like white hot pokers right in the eye. 

I groan, rubbing at my face with my hands and then reaching for my leg before someone shoos me away. 

“I’m sorry this hurts,” Waverly says (though she doesn’t sound all that understanding), “but you did this to yourself, Nicole. I’m just glad we found you when we did. You could’ve died, you know. I would have never forgiven you for that.”

I lick at my dry, cracked lips. Swallow. 

I don’t say anything, and I don’t need to. I can tell without opening my eyes, without saying a word, that Waverly feels the weight settle between us, as heavy for her as it is for me. 

_ Never forgive you. _

Tears prickle at the edges of my eyelashes, and I’m afraid to move, or breathe, or do anything that might cause them to leak out and betray me. 

Waverly sighs, and without missing a beat, resumes the process of healing all my injuries.

I try not to wince, for fear that my reaction will spark some more unpleasant conversation between us, but if Waverly notices my little hisses of pain or flinches, she doesn’t acknowledge it. 

All in all, Waverly has once again earned the title of efficient, and everything inside me is again in working order within about ten minutes. Well, most of me, anyway. Waverly’s magic has limits in the types of wounds it can heal.

As I mentioned before, witches’ magic has the power to heal skin, tissue, and bones, but it’s a different magic (a potion, I think, actually, if we’re getting into specifics) that numbs pain. 

I climb to my feet, and the soreness of my entire body in response is enough to make everything spin. I reach out into the air, my fingers grasping at nothing as I try to re-establish my balance. 

Waverly’s hand appears at my elbow, holding me steady while I regain my bearings. I go to offer her a weak smile of thanks, trying my damndest to activate my irresistible sorry puppy dog mode, but she’s avoiding any eye contact, her gaze fixed firmly on the ground, away from me. 

I feel my shoulders deflate and follow her numbly as we both make our way to the back door of the Homestead. I glance back at the entrance to the forest, where Gus and Ruth and Wynonna have not yet made their reappearance. My heart thunders in my chest.

What if one of them is hurt?

_ We should go back and help them_, I want to say. 

I’m about to open my mouth when Waverly starts speaking with her back still turned towards me. 

“I’ll go back and give them a hand once you’re settled in my room,” she says, her voice pitched the dangerous kind of soft that means I’m in _ big trouble _ . “You’ll go back inside and stay upstairs and _ rest _ and not help, until someone tells you it’s okay to come downstairs again.”

I take in a breath that’s too shaky, too shallow.

She must know that me staying inside while I know others—the people I care about most in the world—are in potential danger from cleaning up _ my mess _ while I sit around, _ lying in bed_, for fuck’s sake, when I should be doing _ something _ is my personal hell. 

So I pause for a moment, to see if she’ll change her mind, if her anger will fizzle out long enough for me to actually _ do something_. I take in another breath, and still, my lungs sense no air, experience no relief. 

Everything inside me _ burns_. 

“You heard me, Nicole,” she repeats, her voice barely louder than a whisper but sharper than a whip. “You might be healed, but you’re still weak. You’ll only get in the way right now. Let us handle this.”

I know that Waverly is upset, and she has every right to be. 

I know she’s worried about me, know she doesn’t want me to get hurt because she cares. 

And I know she hopes that I’ll take comfort in the fact that now there’s people in my life who are equipped to handle all of the shit that comes with my being a werewolf. 

But my brain doesn’t give a single _ fuck _ about what it knows as my heart explodes into a hundred tiny shards of hurt. 

In the way, she said. All I am is _ in the _ fucking _ way_. 

I hobble without grace towards the Homestead, not bothering to hide my tears as I pass by Waverly and wordlessly close the door behind me without looking back to see her reaction. 

I throw myself on the bed, letting myself sink deep, _ deep _ into the mattress and cry. 

* * *

You know that unnerving feeling when you didn’t notice you fell asleep until you’re woken up?

Well. 

“Haught cakes!” Wynonna greets as she waltzes into my room, throwing open the door. 

I wake with a start, making a _ super cute _ snort sound as I blink back the last holds of sleep. My eyes are a damn crusty mess (I know, _ ew_), the remnants of my crying jag hardened and dried to a glue on my lashes. 

“Go away, ‘Nonna,” I grumble, my voice nasal and thick. 

_ Ugh_. 

Reason number one of a million reasons why I hate crying. Because we all know feeling like shit alone is insufficient, your body will do you the favor of becoming a human snot factory, too. _ So helpful! _

If Wynonna heard me, she ignores it, settling herself instead on the edge of Waverly’s bed. She plays with the fraying ends of one of the eight blankets (yes, _ eight_) piled up next to my feet. 

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” she begins, still focusing on the blanket. “I didn’t get to see much of the demon-y action, and Waverly didn’t see any of it. Ruth and Gus took over everything by the time we found the damn thing, which wasn’t as easy as I thought it was gonna be.”

She sighs, quirking a brow as we look at each other. “You can have a baby of your own, and they still make you sit at the damn kids’ table for Thanksgiving dinner.” 

She laughs to herself at the joke, waiting for me to join in. 

“Wynonna . . . ”

I want to say _ go away _ again, because _ clearly _ the message didn’t stick the first time, but the look on my best friend’s face, so unable to process any emotions of her own, so eager to make me feel better, has me tongue-tied. 

“I’ll let Ruth and Gus fill you in on all the actual, epic details,” Wynonna rolls her eyes. “They would not shut up about their ‘demon raid of ‘94’, whatever the hell that means, so you might want to shut that one down if it comes up as a topic in the conversation.” 

“Demon raid of ‘94 . . . ” I shake my head, still having difficulty processing after being snatched from my sleep. “Wynonna, why are you telling me all this?” 

“Listen, Haught Sauce,” she says, getting up from her spot on the bed to tap her fingers absently along the window sill. “I might’ve been born at night, but it wasn’t _ last night_, okay? So you disappeared for a few years. That doesn’t change the fact that I know my best friend. And I know you’ve been sitting up here, crying your eyes out, all hot and bothered because Waverly sent you home when you wanted to play the hero.” 

I wouldn’t list _ tact _ as being one of Wynonna’s top ten qualities (and emotional intelligence isn’t looking too good, either), but _ damn_, that shit stings. 

I thought I was too dehydrated for any more tears, but a telltale heat builds behind my eyes. I bite the inside of my lip, squeezing the muscles in my chest to stuff down another onslaught of _ feelings_. 

I grunt to shake it off and turn away from her to hide my face, just in case. “Hot and bothered is a really weird way to describe that, Wynonna.” 

“Whatever, Ginger Spice. I didn’t come up here to talk semantics with you.” 

She settles back on the bed, jostling it a bit for maximum obnoxious squeaky noises, then grabs my face between her hands and flicks me right between the eyebrows. My eyes immediately start to water. 

“Ouch!” I shout, pushing her off and rubbing at my smarting skin. “What the hell was that for?” 

“I could tell you needed to cry some more, so I just gave your eyes an out,” she says, shrugging, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

I groan, swiping furiously to rid my cheeks of the glaze of tears. 

“I get it. I’m dumb, I messed up. I made Waverly mad, so she sent you up here to torture me. You win, are you happy?” Bring on the warbly, sad voice. “I know that I fucked up. You don’t need to tell me. Please . . . just leave me alone.” 

“Waverly _ is _ angry, and per our agreement, I will have to pummel you later for making my sister upset,” Wynonna acknowledges. “But nobody asked me to come harp on you. I’m here to be your cheer up squad, Haught potato.” 

“You could’ve fooled me,” I bite back, bitter. 

Wynonna takes my hands into one of her own, gently using the thumb of her other to wipe away my remaining tears. 

“You don’t want to talk about our feelings and braid each other’s hair? That’s fine. Better for me, even,” she chuckles. “But I’m not going to let you go through this alone. So if we’re not talking, I’m cool with just sitting by you for however long you need.” 

She plunks down next to me, and I refuse to look at her, or speak, or do anything to indicate that I’ve taken in a word of what she’s saying. 

I stare down at my hands, waiting for Wynonna to breach her own silence. 

A minute goes by.

Then two.

Three.

_ Ten. _

I can’t believe I’ve been out-stubborned by an Earp. 

Wait. What the hell am I saying?

Of _ course _ I can. 

“What am I going to do, Wynonna?” 

She slings her arm around me, then lays her hand awkwardly on the top of my head and pats, because assuming that for a moment you have forgotten, it’s Wynonna we’re talking about.

“You’ll do what you always do, Nicole,” she says. “Which is to say, the right thing. So after we finish up here, you’ll go downstairs to the library and apologize to my sister. Then you’ll do whatever is in your power to make it up to her.”

I sniffle. “Do you think she’ll forgive me?” 

“Eh,” Wynonna says, kicking out her legs in a steady rhythm against the bed frame. “She’ll forgive you, Haught. Eventually, anyways.”

“Wow, Earp, you ever consider a career in writing uplifting greeting cards?”

“Shut up.”

* * *

Walking down the stairs, my feet feel like they’re made of lead while the rest of my legs are made of cotton candy. Is that the death march I hear playing in the background?

Every step I take feels like one step closer to impending doom, so I’m having some trouble talking myself out of running back up the stairs for shelter. 

_ I’m sorry, Waverly. _

_ I’m the worst, and I know it. _

_ I brought you your favorite vegan chocolate. Are you still mad at me? _

I know that rehearsing my apologies will do me no good, as I’m sure whatever I’ve managed to prepare by the time I see Waverly will be long gone the second I open my mouth. 

But it feels better, you know, letting my mind roam in safer places as the rest of me keeps moving forward to _ less _ safe places. 

Waverly, it turns out, isn’t in the library at all. Oh no. She’s nestled with a book in a recliner (Curtis’ favorite, if memory serves me well) in the front room, and by the time I see her, I’m in plain view as well. 

“Nicole,” she greets, if not warmly, then civilly. 

“Hey,” I answer, shuffling down the last of the steps. “Um. How are you?”

“So we’re back to small talk, then, is that it?” she snaps her book shut, unimpressed. 

“Um, no, I . . . ” there are tears bubbling up in my face, like those water absorbing beads that grow to be two hundred times their original size. 

She lets out a breath. “I’m not mad at you, Nicole. Well, not anymore, anyways.”

“You’re . . . you’re not?”

This is a trick, right? 

This is definitely a fucking _ trap_, and here I am, the idiot, walking right into it.

“No,” Waverly shakes her head, pats the arm of the recliner for me to sit down. “Can we talk?”

I’m wordless as a mime (minus the black and white face paint, that shit is bad for your skin), still thoroughly spooked as I sit down, watching for any sudden movements. 

Waverly sets her book down. “You really scared me today, Nicole. You scared the shit out of me, you know that?” 

“I know, Waverly, and I’m so, so—” 

She runs her hand across my knee. “Let me finish, please.” 

“Right,” I flush, embarrassed. 

“I woke up this morning with a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, the feeling that you get when something isn’t right,” she recalls. “I hoped that I was wrong, of course, but I kind of knew, even when you and I were talking last night before your transformation, that you were going to go after the demon. Alone.”

_ You were right_. 

Well, I guess we can add “predictable” to my Tinder profile. Do you think anyone will swipe right?

“I woke up everyone in the house, we all ran into the forest, and when we found you . . . ” she squeezes her eyes shut. “It was awful, Nicole. Seeing you like that. I didn’t know for a while if you were dead or alive. If that demon had wanted you dead, Nicole, you would have been.”

“Oh,” is all I can manage to say. 

_ If the demon had wanted you dead _ . . . so it doesn’t want me dead?

When did that happen?

“Is there something I’m doing wrong, Nicole?” her voice breaks on a half-sob. “Is there a reason you want to leave so badly?”

“Oh no, Waverly, shhh, I’m so sorry,” I rush to comfort her, but she holds me back, palm flat against my chest. 

“_Don’t_,” she warns, sharp. “Nicole, people have been leaving me my whole life. Daddy, Mama, Willa, Wynonna, even _ you_. So forgive me if I’m being unkind, but I need to know, Nicole. I need to know if you’re planning on leaving me. And I want to know why.”

“Waverly,” I begin, crouching so that we’re at eye level. “I’m sorry. I know, I know. That’s not what you want to hear right now. You want an explanation. And I’ll give you that, too, but I had to tell you this first: I’m really, really sorry.”

“You don’t know what it’s been like,” she exhales, her voice watery. “You have no idea what it was like to be the only one here. To have so many of the people you care about not love you enough to stay.” 

“I have no idea what you’ve been through,” I agree, risking touch again as my hand goes for her hers, which this time, she allows. “I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you, Waverly. I know that I hurt your feelings this morning. But I didn’t do it because I don’t care about you, or because I didn’t want to stay.”

“Then why, Nicole?” she asks. “Why?”

“Because . . . ” I pause, wondering where all my words have run off to. 

She’s looking at me, expectant, and it’s probably too late to try and back out now. 

But when I put words to these thoughts, what happens next? 

“I feel worthless,” I confess, and though it sucks to say that aloud, it feels better, (easier?), to say it to Waverly.

“This demon thing isn’t any of you or your family’s responsibility, and I thought that if I could activate my stupid wolf powers and get rid of it on my own, then I wouldn’t feel so bad about, you know, taking up space.”

Waverly’s eyes fill with tears, and I have no idea how I somehow managed to fuck up even worse. She begins sobbing in earnest, and I scramble to do something, _ anything_, to make it better.

“Waves? Waverly? Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I’ll never say that again, I have no idea what I was thinking—” 

I’m afraid to touch her, to mess up any boundaries that she’s set, but I want nothing more than to gather her up in my arms, to hold her until whatever hurt is there is gone. 

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, once she’s had some time to recover. “It’s just . . . Nicole, I feel terrible that you feel that way about yourself. I want you to trust that you are a beautiful person who deserves love.”

It’s a strange feeling, when someone says something about you that you want—maybe more than you want anything else—to believe, but you _ can’t_. 

“What can I do to help you trust that?” Waverly asks.

The alarm bells in my head are going off: _ SOS SOS SOS_, _ we are in crisis mode here_. _ The time to close yourself down and protect yourself was a while back, code red, code red_!

“I don’t feel that way,” I say, slow and cautious, lest I stomp all over Waverly’s emotional state again. “And I don’t think I ever will. But thank you. It really means a lot to me that you’d say it all the same, that you’d want to help me.”

“I _ do _ want to help you,” Waverly agrees. “I know you’re worried about making me upset, but I want you to promise me to _ try _ to talk to me when you’re feeling this way without worrying how I feel about it. Maybe you can let me in a little more, and we can work on it together?”

_ We can work on it together_. 

This gorgeous, _ wonderful _ witch has no idea what she’s getting into.

Am I going to tell her? 

“I’ve never done this before,” I admit, bending down on one knee with her hand in mine like a proposal to make it more official. “Will you do the honor of staying with me when I’m transforming during the next full moon?”

“Really?” she wipes at her cheeks. “You really want me to be with you, Nicole?”

She looks so happy right now, with her eyes all lit up, the hints of a smile tugging at the edges of her lips. 

The truth is, I’m terrified. 

No one, _ no one_, has ever stayed with me during one of my transformations. Part of the reason for that is because no one has ever wanted to, but the main reason is that _ I _ don’t want anyone to see me like that. 

The thought of someone seeing me go from Nicole to werewolf makes me feel sick. 

I’m standing at the edge of a cliff right now, hoping that when I jump, I’ll fly.

“Yes, Waverly, I really want you to be there with me. Will you?”

“Of course I will!” she leaps off her feet right into my arms, where I hold her a moment in the air, swaying. 

It feels nice, like time has stopped, and we’re the only two people in the whole, wide world. 

“So,” the voice of Ruth says, clapping her hands. 

I almost drop Waverly.

Through some kind of miracle, I manage to set her back down without incident. The two of us make a show of hurrying to straighten our hair and pull out the wrinkles in our clothes as we look anywhere but the faces of Ruth and Gus.

“We were, uh, we were just, um, studying?” Waverly explains, gesturing vaguely at the book she’s left discarded in the recliner.

“Yep, studying,” I confirm, nodding furiously. 

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Gus asks with a wink. 

“Help,” Waverly pleads, pinching at the bridge of her nose. 

“Will you both join us in the kitchen, please,” Ruth requests, leading the way. “We wanted to give you both the update on the demon situation." 

“Wait . . . so,” Waverly scratches at the top of her head, brow furrowed. “Wynonna said something about how you destroyed the demon?”

“Well,” Gus pauses, sighs. “Not quite.”

“It’s going to be a little more complicated than that, dear,” Ruth explains, guiding us into seats around the small, round table. “Let’s talk more over a spot of tea, shall we?”

One thing I love about Black Cats Booksellers and Cafe is their impressive (if not impractical) collection of mugs. Waverly started collecting them when she was a kid, and they easily have hundreds of them now, from all over the world. 

I think Waverly told me once that she was up to 88 different countries. 

They use the grossly mismatched mugs for dine-in cafe customers, and of course, the take out customers are treated to some compostable and recycled coffee cups.

Waverly is basically reduce, reuse, recycle with legs. 

Soft, _ nice _ legs. 

“That’s no run of the mill demon,” Ruth says, flicking her wand and cajoling four mugs and a teapot full of water our way. “For starters, it’s more than just a demon. It’s a demon possessing one of Mrs. Clooties’ horses.” 

Waverly gasps, covers her mouth in horror. 

I look down, bite the edge of my lip.

I know I didn’t know until now that my arch-nemesis was actually a regular old horse (and a horse belonging to Mrs. C, no less) with some nasty ass demon hands pulling the puppet strings, but I feel terrible. 

Sure, it held its own, no doubt—but I put it through the ringer. 

For an almost constant _ two _ weeks. 

“We couldn’t coax the demon out of the horse and destroy the demon itself,” Gus says, catching the teapot and twirling a finger around to make the water inside of it boil. “And we didn’t want to risk hurting the animal.”

“So, we left it bound in the forest for now,” Ruth says, wrapping an arm around Waverly-the-animal-lover for reassurance. “It won’t be able to do any damage to itself or others while the bond holds. But this is a kind of magic not even the likes of us two old broads have seen before.”

Gus harumps. “Who are you calling an old broad, old broad?” she says, winks at Ruth.

The two of them together are a little bit cute, I think, but also this version of a flirty, fluffy-bathrobe-wearing Gus still kinda freaks me out? 

Ruth dutifully fills all of our mugs with steaming hot chamomile tea. 

Waverly sips delicately at the calming liquid. “Are you sure it’s safe to leave it there? I know you bound it, but—couldn’t the demon possess something else?”

Gus lays her hand on Waverly’s arm. “Ruth and I are in regular contact with the spirits living in the forest. We’ll know right away if something is wrong.” 

“The binding spell we used should be effective for at least another couple of weeks,” Ruth says, and she and Gus share complimentary, triumphant smiles. “Which, in theory, should give us enough time to figure out a more long-term solution.” 

“So,” I clear my throat, my cheeks burning as all eyes focus on me. “What happens next? Do we know at least what kind of demon we’re dealing with now?” 

Ruth stirs some sugar into her tea with a spoon. “I think what you said before was right, Nicole. The only way to defeat this demon is with some wolf magic—with _ your _ wolf magic.”

Well, _ fuck_. 

Take me out back and shoot me like a dog, why don’t you?

“Um,” I attempt to swallow down my gulp, nervously watching everyone’s reactions. “So, we haven’t really gotten anywhere with the whole, uh, wolf power control thing?” 

To summarize, I basically know _ nothing_. 

Gus shakes her head at me. “Nicole Haught, you’ve been at this exactly one day. Give yourself some time, kid. We’ll figure it out.” 

Well, maybe it’s been one whole day with the Earps, but it’s been a lot longer than that in total for me. Just one nice, real long string of failures, really. 

“We’ve had far worse odds, believe me,” Ruth adds, sprinkling some extra sugar into my mug. “Now have some tea, dear, before it gets cold.” 

I obediently take a drink. There’s a warmth that spreads down the length of my body, starting with my chest. I wonder vaguely if this is really just “tea”, and not some kind of magic. 

Waverly looks up. “Do you think you’ll be able to maintain the binding spell until the next full moon?” 

Ruth holds her mug up to her nose, inhales deeply. “That won’t be a problem, Waverly.”

Waverly presses a wandering finger into my side. “We’ll keep working on it, Bubs. I’m _ positive _ you’ll be able to harness your full powers by then.”

I take another sip of my tea so as to avoid answering. My hand reaches for hers, guides it into the warm pocket of my hoodie and holds it against my stomach.

Might be easy for Waverly to say, but it’s hard for me even thinking about it. I feel the pressure of this new deadline settle heavily on my shoulders. 

“Well, that all depends,” Gus says, crosses her arms over her chest with a none too subtle smirk. “If you two can stop giving each other googly eyes for long enough to get some actual work done.”

I start choking, my eyes watering as I gasp for oxygen. Waverly frantically pounds against my back until I manage to suck in some air. 

“Gus, please!” she yelps, red emblazoning her cheeks. 

“Let us little old ladies have some fun now, dear,” Ruth chuckles. 

“Fun’s over,” says Gus, and her voice is gruff, but the smile across her face is unmistakable. “It’s time for you two to help with dinner.”

“Knock, knock,” Wynonna greets, pounding her fist against the wall where she rests her hip.

She glares over pointedly at me and Waverly. “Do you two practice those heart eyes in the mirror, or is it just natural talent?”

I groan, letting my head collapse into my hands. 

“Don’t listen to her, Nic,” Waverly whispers into my ear, her hand rubbing my back. “She’s just trying to get a rise out of you.” 

Well, it’s working like a charm, I want to say. 

Hmm. Does that saying still work if Wynonna actually _ could _ cast a charm on me? 

“Um, so, _ Wynonna_,” Waverly begins. 

“Oh no, baby girl,” Wynnona shakes her head, firm. “_No_. Don’t think I don’t know your I-want-a-favor-voice, Waverly. Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say yet!” Waverly pouts. 

“Girls.” Gus admonishes, stern. “I’ll not have the two of you spoiling my appetite with your bickering before I’ve even had a chance to get started on preparing my dinner. Now all three of you, time to get into the kitchen and _ help_.” 

Gus never was one for any arguing or back talk, so the three of us hurry to comply, Waverly and I pushing in our chairs under the table before making our way to the kitchen (Gus won’t have us leaving a mess behind, either). 

She and Ruth go to the living room in search of one of Ruth’s cooking books, leaving us with a strict warning to _ behave_. 

“_Wy-nno-na_,” Waverly hisses under her breath, away from the eyes and ears of Gus, separating each syllable of her sister’s name for emphasis.

“Okay, fine, what is it?” Wynonna surrenders, starting in on washing the potatoes in the sink. “I’m not saying _ yes_, you know. Just that I am listening.” 

“I think I figured out something that might be able to help Nicole with controlling their werewolf powers,” Waverly says, and my ears perk up. 

“Okay,” Wynonna says, setting the clean, wet potato on the bamboo cutting board. “What does that have to do with me?”

“It’s a spell,” Waverly explains, her eyes darting to look at mine before turning back to Wynonna. “I want to try it out, as in soon, tonight if we can.” 

“If you’re asking me to do all the dinner prep myself, no deal, kiddo,” Wynonna says, taking a knife to quarter the potatoes out of the drawer and brandishing it at Waverly. “Especially not when we have another mouth to feed. A big, wolfy mouth, might I add.”

I touch my jaw, worried for a moment that I do have a larger-than-average mouth. 

“I’m not asking you to do all the dinner prep yourself,” Waverly corrects. “Just distract the aunties for a couple minutes, okay? We’ll be back before you’ve finished up the potatoes. And I’ll sweeten the deal. I’ll throw in some free babysitting on a weekend. Any weekend you want.”

“Any weekend I want, huh?” Wynonna contemplates the idea. 

She sighs. 

“Fine, you get fifteen minutes with your lover upstairs uninterrupted, and not a minute longer, capisce?”

“Wait, but I’m not her—” I protest.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Waverly interrupts, kissing a grumbling Wynonna on the cheek and dragging me up the stairs to her room. 

I sit on the bed and watch as Waverly moves around in a flurry, her hands wringing as she searches for something. She lets out a cry of triumph, holding a box. 

“So this is another thing I thought we could try,” Waverly says, dropping a crystal, shiny enough to be glass, into my open palm. 

Waverly reaches into the box, pulling out a maroon, cloth satchel. She turns it upside down and dumps a small mountain of crystals to the floor. They’re all different shapes and sizes, gleaming as they catch in the light of her bedroom.

“What are those?” I ask.

“I’ve never done this without one of the aunties to help me,” she confesses, her words coming out in a rush. “But there’s magic that enables witches to enter into each other’s minds.”

I sit back into the wall. “Woah.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Woah is right. It’s a really special kind of magic that takes the existing connection between two witches and enhances it. It’s designed to help witches gain new meaning in their relationships, new perspective.”

“Okay,” I close my fingers around the crystal. “So, what you’re saying is, this is all one big, extended metaphor for sex?”

She smacks my shoulder, the two of us giggling like mad. “No, no sex metaphor here.”

I give her a pointed look. “Uh huh. Sure . . . ”

“The only thing is,” she says, easing her stocking-covered toes out of her slippers. “From what I can tell, this spell has only been performed with two witches. So I don’t know how it will work with a witch and a werewolf, if it works at all.” 

I watch in silence as she makes a circle of the crystals around the rug situated at the center of her room. She’s so deliberate as she places each one, her lip slightly jutted out as she reaches for a ruler, measuring the distance between all of them and adjusting their positions. 

I fight back the urge to reach for one of her hands and hold it in mine. 

She looks back up at me from her spot on the floor, smiles. “This could be what you need to help you find the path to your magic. It’ll be like I’m your personal magical tutor.” 

“Huh,” I say, climbing off the bed and sitting next to her, almost touching, but not quite. “A personal magic tutor? Aren’t there rules about the students and tutors getting involved? Because, _ if so _ . . . ”

Waverly doesn’t respond, only offers her hands for me to take.

I hold back for a second, wanting to soak it all in. 

The feeling in the room has shifted—I feel calmer, more (okay, yep, here’s your yoga buzzword of the week) _ balanced _ (the only way I know how to describe it)—and if a rippling wind appearing in a room with no open windows and no active vents serves as any indication, there’s already magic working in the air. 

But still, I hesitate. 

What happens if I can’t get my wolf magic to work? 

What happens if we get it to work, and it’s not _ enough_? 

Or what if it _ is _ enough? 

What if it’s enough, and I defeat the demon, and then there’s no more reason for me to stay?

“Trust me, Bubs,” Waverly urges, but she holds her hands where they are, waiting for me to make the decision. “I’m right here.”

“I trust you,” I say, linking our fingers together. “I trust you.” 

* * *

The first thing I notice when I open my eyes are the colors.

Orange, green, pink, yellow, purple, blue. 

Thousands of different shades of soft, warm _ colors_. 

Waverly and I are still holding hands, suspended in a plane of some sort that isn’t subject to the same laws of gravity as earth. We’re _ floating_. 

We.

Are.

Fucking.

_ Floating_. 

There doesn’t seem to be any kind of ground, at least, not that I can see. 

“So,” I begin, afraid to release Waverly’s hands for fear of falling. “This is . . . ”

Nice? Calm? Beautiful?

“ . . . weird?”

“I know,” Waverly agrees, laughing as she eases her hands from mine, and I immediately fasten myself to the lapels of her jacket, holding on for dear life. “It’s okay, Nicole. You can’t fall here.” 

I clear my throat, settling for keeping a hand resting loosely on her hip (_just in case_). 

“Hey,” I say, reaching to trace down the shell of her ear. “You’re not wearing your hearing aids anymore. Where did they go? Do we need to go back? Are you—?”

“I don’t need them here,” she looks down, her cheeks flushed. “There’s no actual sound for me to hear.” 

“Oh,” I say, trying to not freak out about the fact that we’re in some godforsaken place with _ no _ gravity and _ no _ sound and who knows what the hell else. “How . . . how is that for you?”

She brushes me off, eyes narrowed. “It’s whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

“Waves,” I say, winding my hands into the oversized pockets of her sweater (yes, she is wearing both a sweater and a jacket and an undershirt at the same time, a thought alone that gives me heat stroke). “If we’re here to strengthen our connection, we’re going to have to talk about stuff.”

“But I don’t _ want _ to talk about it,” she points out, hugging herself and withdrawing. 

My firm grip on her sweater won’t allow it. 

“Come on, Honeybee,” I pull on her sweater to bring us closer yet, right into my arms, where I can rest my chin on top of her head. “I promise I won’t force you to talk about anything if you don’t want to. But I’d really, _ really _ like it if you’d tell me how this feels.”

She burrows her face into the crook of my neck. Her breath against my skin tickles, but I don’t dare squirm. 

“This was supposed to be about just _ you_,” she explains, curling her fingers against my chest. “But I guess you can’t hide anything, not here, anyways. It’s hard for me, Nicole. It’s really hard.” 

I nod against her head. “Do you want to tell me more about why?” 

“Let me show you instead?”

I see a young Waverly, no more than four years old, with her palms pressed up against Gus’ (whose curly hair is colored a rich, jet black, as opposed to the gray I know), the two of their eyes both closed. The familiar circle of the crystals surrounds them, and Waverly’s wand lies behind them on the ground. 

I can see the teeny tiny pink hearing aids in baby Waverly’s ears, the freckles dusted across her round face. 

Gus claps her hand in joy as the tip of Waverly’s wand glows with light. Little Waverly flinches in the brightness of it all, though I can feel the pride rushing through her, filling her up to the brim.

“Cool, huh?” present time Waverly asks, reappearing in place of the memory. 

“Cool?” I repeat, dumbstruck. “Waverly, that was . . . I _ saw _ that. No, I—I think it was more than that. I experienced that. With you.” 

Waverly nods. “You did. I used to do this spell all the time with Gus when I was little. I had a hard time learning magic, if you’ll believe it. Something about magic and the feedback of hearing aids that doesn’t mix. So I needed some extra help at the beginning.” 

“So you’d come here, where there wasn’t any sound, and practice?” I ask.

“It was the only time I never had to worry,” Waverly admits. “I was so anxious as a kid, you know? I hated it when I couldn’t understand people the same way other kids could. I hated it when adults would look into my ears, get this look on their face, say something like, ‘Oh, that’s what the problem is.’ This place? Sometimes it makes me miserable. Because it makes me wish that other people were better at handling shit in the real world, and they can’t. Or won’t.” 

“Yeah . . . ” I trail off. 

We watch together as a six or seven-ish aged me comforts a crying Waverly outside of the school door. I can feel the way her hand clenches the hearing aids in her palm like they’re cursed, can feel the fibers of her sweater as I squeeze her shoulder to comfort. 

“I remember that day,” I breathe. 

“Me too,” Waverly agrees. “I’ll never forget it, either.”

“Can I show you something, too?” I ask, tentative. 

“Of course.”

I concentrate, flipping through memories in my head like they’re pages in a photo album, wondering if Waverly can seem them, too, by virtue of my recalling them. I try to focus in on a specific memory, not sure why it’s _ this _ memory I want to show her, hope that I don’t look too constipated as I think.

“It can be a little scary your first time, I know,” Waverly says, soft, reassuring. “But I want you to know it’s okay. Show me whatever you want.”

I’m lying on the ground, in wolf form. It’s been days since I’ve seen another human, days since I’ve _ been _ a human. I go to lick at my paw, which is bleeding, but my mouth is too dry, and my tongue gets stuck. My stomach, hungry and angry, sits at the top of my chest. 

I’ve known since I was a kid the hunger that was annoying, that was hard. Waiting for a small eternity for the pot of water to boil, so I could help myself to a hearty bowl of Kraft macaroni and cheese. 

But I’d never known a hunger like this, a hunger indistinguishable from pain. A hunger that lived outside of you, like its own person, who would scream in your ear until you couldn’t remember your name . . . 

_ I miss you, Waverly, _ past me thinks, and it’s this pain which drowns out the rest. 

The thought of never seeing Waverly again. 

“I have no idea what it’s like to wear hearing aids,” I say, breaking through the memory. “But there are lots, _ lots _ of things I wish people could do better in the real world. Me being one of those people. I know I said it already, but I’m really sorry, Waverly. Can you ever forgive me?” 

“I’m here, you know,” Waverly says, peeking into my eyes. “You don’t have to miss me anymore.” 

I laugh, cup her hands in mine (definitely _ not _ because I still feel like I’m in imminent danger of falling), and plant a gentle kiss on top of them.

“You have no idea how lovely you are.” 

“So show me then,” she challenges, closing the space between us. “I want you to _ show _ me, Nicole.”

“Are you sure?” I shrink back, rubbing the back of my neck. “You know, being with a werewolf is a lot to take in, and we just came back into each other’s lives, so I’d get it if you wanted to think about this for a while.”

Waverly sighs, frustrated, before breaking into a smirk. “Well, I told you I’d be your tutor, didn’t I? Let me show you what I mean.”

And with that, she curls her fingers into the hair at the back of my head, pulls me closer, and presses her lips against mine. She’s so soft, so _ achingly _ soft, my hands could sink into her skin forever.

I smile, laugh into the kiss, because it's just so strange that this amazing thing would be happening to _me_? 

"Wow, this is so great, I am—"

"Nope," Waverly hushes, draws me back in. 

You know how when you’re really, really, _ really _ looking forward to something, and you build up this whole, unrealistic fantasy in your head of what it’s going to be like? 

Did you know that sometimes your paltry little brain isn’t capable of imagining how _ wonderful _something can be? 

It catches you off guard in the most beautiful, _ perfect _ way. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  



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